


Even the Smallest

by Webhoard



Series: Even the Smallest [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Cussing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, creepy coworker, drink responsibly, pop culture references, reader is a proper normal, someone call the National Forest Foundation because there is an illegal level of pining here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Webhoard/pseuds/Webhoard
Summary: You work as a publicist for the Avengers. When an accident on a mission causes Steve to regress to his pre-serum form, the rest of the team tries to find a way to get Steve back to Cap while you handle the PR nightmare that ensues and gently remind him that, even if they cannot find a way to cure him, not all heroes have to wear capes to change the world…or in his case star spangled spandex.Finished!! But look out for spin-offs, deleted scenes, and headcanons in the near future.





	1. In Which You Attempt to Herd Cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re a publicist for the Avengers, and as much as you hate people, you can’t quite find it in yourself to hate Steve, that beautiful bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m picturing the reader as being a bit of an April Ludgate? We’ll see how that works out in the long run…

Sometimes when you looked at Steve, you just wanted to go up to him and punch him in right in his exceptionally symmetrical face. He was someone whom you, like the rest of the world, could not help but look up to. He was noble but not vain, brave but humble, self-sacrificing but not a doormat. And as if that wasn’t enough virtue for one man, he looked as though he were a Grecian god carved from marble by the sculptors of antiquity.

Yeah, nothing would make you happier than to punch him square in the jaw.

Or maybe your violent notions had more to do with the way that he was smiling at Sharon Carter at the moment, the way her hand ever so lightly patted his arm as she laughed at something he said, the way they both were lost in their own little moment. If you were being honest, you knew your current animosity toward both Steve and Sharon had more to do with jealousy than your dislike of perfection or women agents. Ugh, besides, if you actually did punch him you would probably just end up breaking something in your hand.

You were so focused on your thoughts and stealing irrationally irate glances at Steve and Sharon talking and laughing that you didn’t notice the rapidly rising volume in your coffee mug until the hot, staining liquid began splashing onto your pale suede pumps and the delicate skin of the top of your foot.

With a sharp intake of air and squinting eyes, you stifled the profanities that were threatening to escape and jumped backward away from the cascading coffee, but not before a large tan splotch formed on your work shirt. You wanted to scream out in frustration, but you were at the coffee station adjacent to the large conference room where the Avengers were already beginning to meet. The last thing you needed to do was to draw attention to your current predicament.

God you hated Wednesdays.

Despite your attempts at discretion, Steve, ever observant, saw the scene unfold in his peripheral. Finishing his conversation with Sharon, he excused himself and made his way to the kitchenette where you were furiously attempting to mop up the spill with saturated paper napkins.

“Need a hand?” He asked, not waiting for an answer as he retrieved a towel from the cupboard.

“Nah, I was just seeing if I could dye my shirt in time for the meeting…and y’know the whole kitchen,” you muttered out, avoiding looking at him as you gathered the sopping wad of tissue while he took over your task with the towel.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he said, shoving you lightly with his shoulder. Of course, lightly for him was still strong, and your balance wavered momentarily as you stood at the small sink in your heels, now attempting to tame the stain on your blouse with a fresh paper towel.

“Steve, I’m not nervous if that’s what you’re implying. Public speaking does not scare me, but even if it did, there’s no way I’d ever be nervous to speak in front of you guys. It’s like talking to a room full of kindergarteners,” you were trying your best to sound casual and teasing. Y’know, flirting, right? Unfortunately for you, your flirty banter often came off as cold and sarcastic at best, rude and mean spirited at worst. But Steve, that handsome bastard, he always seemed to find it amusing. Maybe that was the reason you maybe sort of found him endearing, in his own way.

Steve just smirked and shook his head, his lower lip pouting out just ever so slightly, “We do get a bit chatty sometimes, I’ll give you that.” He reached over you to ring out the towel in the sink, stunning you for a few seconds with a small gust of his cologne, a light spicy scent that made you want to lean toward his shoulder for a better sniff, but you were in control of yourself and you kept your actions in check. As he hung up the towel to dry, he continued, “But while we’re on the subject, what exactly is this meeting about?”

Recovering from your fleeting loss of composure and giving up on de-staining your shirt, you stepped away from the sink and the warmth that had been rolling off his shoulders. Once again, you just tried to play it cool, “Impatient like toddlers too. You’ll find out, along with everyone else, in just a few minutes.” You added, attempting to soften your expression, “And, uh, thanks. Y’know for helping me clean this all this shit up. But, I gotta go get set up for the meeting.”

“Alright you do that,” he said as he began to pour himself a cup, a wry smirk growing on his face as you turned away to head for the meeting room. “Oh, and Y/N?” he called after you, “language.” He shook his finger at you with mock disapproval.

You allowed your lips to twitch upward ever so slightly, rolling your eyes at him and feigning an apology, “Oh fuck, sorry, Steve.”

He finally let out a laugh that shook his whole frame.

Did that exchange count as flirting? Or was it just him being amused by your clumsiness and crass language. It must have been the latter because there was no way that Steve, Mr. Nobility himself, would flirt with grumpy and reclusive you. Right?

Most of the team had already settled into their usual spots in the conference room when you took yours at the head of the table and began reviewing your talking points and meeting outline.

You were one of the publicists for the Avengers in the PR department at Stark Tower, a job that you had somewhat fallen into because of your previous internship with a subsidiary company for Stark Industries. And while your job could get hectic at times, especially after difficult missions, it was usually just pushing paper and other tedious activities: for instance, the subject of today’s meeting.

“Hey, Y/N, lovin’ the new look,” Sam snickered as he gestured to your blouse, while Steve sat in the last open chair between Sam and Bucky. He always chose this spot for, well, obvious reasons.

“Oh, yeah, high fashion,” you said, glowering at him, which only made his smile grow wider.

“Ok, now that we’re all here, we can get started and get this thing over and done with.” You bit your tongue the moment the words came out and you saw the way Tony’s face brightened with energy and just hint of mischief.

“Now, now what’s the rush, don’t you like spending time with us,” he winked at you, knowing full well how difficult it could be for you to wrangle everyone in meetings, especially himself.

You pursed your lips and responded flatly, “Nothing fulfills my life’s ambitions quite like being in your presence, but we do have things to discuss and—”

Tony cut in, “So that means you’ll make it to the party next Friday then, since, you know, you love us so much,” he paused, mock hurt plastered on his face, “Or was, was that all just a lie?”

This was the fifth time Tony had bugged you about the party in the last two days. It’s not that you didn’t want to go; it was just that staying at home with your cat and not being around people sounded so, so much more appealing. You furrowed your brow in mock confusion, “What is this party celebrating again?”

You could see more than a few smirks and eye-rolls from Natasha, and the others. Tony seldom had credible reasons for throwing a party.

Tony’s face turned serious, “Okay, you know what? I am getting tired of people needing a reason to have a party, ok? We’re just going to celebrate life and the existence of alcohol. Is that a good enough reason? Anyone?”

“Well at least you’re being honest with us for a change,” Rhodey called as he flicked a paper football right at the center of Tony’s forehead. Tony looked like he might like to throw a whole ream of paper in return.

Sensing an impending loss of control in the room, you jumped in, “Fine, yeah, I’ll go to your damn party. You’ve worn me down with your incessant asking.”

Tony smiled at his small victory before you continued, “Ok, now can we get to the matter at hand? I’m not being paid to socialize with any of you right now.”

“True, but I am the one cutting your checks, so I get special treatment.” Tony quirked a brow at you.

“Actually, that would be payroll,” you corrected. “Ok, your mission, should you choose to accept it…” You trailed off, waiting for a response, and were met by blank stares, “Right, no one here likes the Mission Impossible franchise…apparently.” You shook it off as you were more than accustomed to them either not getting your references, or maybe they were just messing with you. You could never be quite sure. Sam had his mouth buried in his hand, no doubt to keep from laughing. He, at least, was definitely messing with you. Despite yourself, you had a soft spot for that dork.

“Anyway just to catch us all up, as you all know, last month the Smithsonian began moving their Captain America exhibit out of the Air and Space Museum to the American History Museum, finally,” you gave Steve a knowing look. He had once complained to you about the exhibit’s location, after all he had only piloted a plane once during the war and promptly crashed it into an ice sheet. “And as you all well know, they are taking this opportunity to expand it to an Avengers exhibit, for which you have all provided interviews already.”

You paused at your next words, knowing what the reaction would be, “And all of you will need to be there for the opening ceremony next Sunday to dedicate the exhibit and say a few words about unity and heroism. The usual patriotic spiel.” You finished speaking and braced for their responses, which quickly filled the room with loud discordant voices.

The calmest responses came from Clint and Rhodey. They were both pretty relaxed about the PR hoops they inevitably had to jump through and just took everything in stride even if they did gripe about it a little. Vision just looked, well, like Vision. He looked neither eager, nor reluctant, just ready. Bucky’s face was a mixture of petrification and loathing. He still had trouble with accepting the public’s general acceptance of him. Wanda, too, looked a bit uneasy at the prospect, her own demons still making her public appearances tense. Steve, Nat, and Sam were all various shades of annoyed. None of them much enjoying being out on display, as Steve once remarked, ‘like circus monkeys.’ And Tony, ah Tony. He stood from his chair, arms outstretched, with a look on his face that said he was made for the spotlight.

“Finally, people will finally be forced to give me the recognition I deserve and in a museum no less,” he looked like the cat that had gotten the cream.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, not much caring if your makeup got smudged in the process. You hollered over the din, “Hey! Ok, ok. Guys?” Their voices began to fall. “Look I know none of you,” you looked at Tony pointedly, “ _Most_ of you would rather not have to do this. I know that. If it makes you feel any better, the more you fight back the harder my job gets, so go get your revenge if you want; I’m ready. But all of you _will_ be going.” 

You held your hands up defensively, “That said, I will talk to Joyce, my museum contact, and see if we can reduce the speeches to just those who are willing, so that some of you can take a back seat if needed,” you looked to Bucky and Wanda this time. “But you all have to go, no matter what. Short of a concurrent mission or grievous injuries with lots’a blood, knock on wood, you will all be there in your Sunday best with fake smiles on your face for the duration of the ceremony. I know you can do it; just look at me.” You flashed what you knew was an utterly unconvincing smile, hoping to cull both a sense of camaraderie and amusement.

You sat back in your chair, enjoying your triumph, your smile becoming almost genuine. You had worked with the team for two years now, and especially closely for the last ten months. By this time, they knew there was no point in protesting with you, not yet anyway. They would all need time to formulate their arguments for a one-on-one meeting with you, not that it would ever change your decisions. You actually didn’t mind that part of the job as it gave you time to actually just talk to some of them, which was enjoyable in its own way, not that you would ever admit this fact to anyone, even under extreme duress.

Tony, ever the enthusiast for speeches and events, piped up, “Well I, for one, cannot wait for the ceremony. Pepper and I might even take an extra day there, go enjoy some Maryland crab cakes to recover from the party on Friday.” Another chorus of groans and eye-rolls rippled through the occupants of the room.

You just eyed at him blankly, “We’re all very happy for you, Tony,” you said as you looked down at your laptop and went through your contacts list, ignoring the low grumbling from your captive audience, “I’m sending all the relevant information to each of you now, but I’d like to take the chance to—”

You were about to go over the dress code and other such logistical items, when the chirping of Tony’s smart watch cut you off. Everyone in the room went dead silent.

“What’s the news, Friday?”

Her musical voice responded, “A priority upload from Fury. He’s requesting the whole team as soon as possible.”

“Got it. Team, ready room in five.”

And with that, everyone started filing out, falling into conversation with each other, some conversations sounding more irritated than others. You glanced at Steve, who was rather slowly gathering up his notepad, pen, mug, and tablet.

“Y/N, sorry but duty calls,” Tony looked apologetic.

“No problem, I’ll just be waiting here…fapping off,” you grumbled that last bit into your coffee mug, taking the last gulp. As much as you loved everyone on the team, working with them could test your patience sometimes, especially when those pesky missions got in the way of your meetings. You looked back at Steve as he bent over to adjust the laces on his shoes.

“Oh, and Y/N,” Tony called before walking through the door. You jerked your eyes up and away from Steve’s soft but hard hands, and Tony gave you a knowing smirk before continuing, “Dress nicely this time, huh? No jeans and a sweatshirt?”

You could feel that one vein in your forehead begin to pulse, “That was one time, Tony! You said it was a ‘just casual night with friends,’ not a fucking gala.”

Tony just waved his hand at you, that small shit-eating grin still playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth, “Black tie, Y/N, black tie.”

“Well, maybe you should give me a raise so I can afford to dress up for your black-tie parties,” you mumbled under your breath as you began to clear up your things.

“I keep trying to tell him that a quiet evening at a dive bar might be a nice change of pace, but then he just tells me I’m just being a grandpa,” Steve remarked, his tablet and notepad in one hand and empty coffee mug in the other.

“Yeah, you might as well tell a fish to try a quiet evening on dry land. Tony is, well, he’s just Tony, isn’t he?”

Steve nodded his head in agreement, still standing at the table. You had your things gathered up and looked at him, now coming to his side and wondering why he was still just standing there.

“Don’t you need to be in the ready room, Captain?” you said his title with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Oh right, of course, I was just, just making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything,” he said setting his mug down to pick up his pen and tuck it into his pocket.

You raised your brows slightly, “Looks like you’ve got it all?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said looking down at his full hands and then back at you, a concentrated frown on his brows, “Uh, after you.” He gestured to the door, juggling his coffee mug and the door handle as he opened it for you. Him and his old fashioned manners.

You gave him a small smile before turning and heading back to your small office. What you didn’t see, your back was turned after all, was the way he looked at your retreating figure with longing, his eyes lingering on the slope of your shoulders and the nape of your neck, the way his pupils grew and his breath became fleetingly faint for just a moment.

Once you returned to your desk and began working on the social media plan for the exhibit dedication, a dull malaise settled around you. This happened every time the team went off on a mission while you were stuck here attending to the less flashy aspects of your job. As stressful as meetings with the Avengers could be, you actually enjoyed having them around to help break up the monotony of the day when they came by with questions or forms that needed your signature. But when they were gone, it was dull, and the realization of how average you were was often impressed upon you.

Not that there was anything wrong with being ordinary. There was a reason you’d gone into to PR and not the military or criminal justice. You typically didn’t care about people and the idea of risking your life for them? Well, that was simply not a priority for you. The thought of facing down and fighting against armed criminals, made you sick to the stomach. You had nothing if not a keenly expressed sense of self-preservation. 

The rest of the afternoon lulled by, your favorite work playlist helping time to move by a with a little more speed.

By the time you made it back to your small apartment in Queens that evening, you were more than ready to have a drink and vegetate in front of the TV. Yeah, ordinary suited you fine.

You were greeted at your door by your stoic grey cloud of a cat, Douglass. He sauntered up to you and began to weave between your legs, causing you to nearly trip several times as you made your way to his food bowl.

Once he was contentedly eating his kibble, you poured yourself a dark beer, clicked on your TV and turned it to the news, and made your way to your bedroom closet. _Black tie, black tie_ you thought to yourself as your poured over your outfits. Nothing in your closet seemed fancy enough for a ‘black tie’ event. Sure, you had plenty of dresses and pant suits, but they were mostly appropriate for work or a casual night out. Nothing screamed super fancy.

You sighed before taking a too large gulp of your beer. Yeah, Tony needed to give you a fucking raise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even know what this fic is turning into. Jesus take the wheel. Don’t even ask me when I’ll update cause idek (you actually can). We’ll say about once a week? Probably? Hopefully?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. In Which You Invoke the Waning Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hold down the fort at the tower, fending off your creepy office mate, while the team is off hunting an arms dealer. But, of course, when do missions ever go off as planned?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are quite a few pop-culture references in here, so if you think I might be referring to something, you’re probably right. Also, I’m doing chapter titles because **why not**?

It was still dark when you awoke the next morning to the sound of your alarm and the crushing warmth of Douglass sitting on your chest. You had set your alarm early so that you could squeeze in some light exercise at the employee gym at the tower before your work day started as you did every Thursday. 

Once you’d eaten and Douglass had been fed and his litter changed, you gathered your work bag and your gym bag and headed down the dim hall of your apartment building. Before you got to the elevator though, you doubled back to your apartment to give the ever stoic Douglass one last pat on his forehead, telling him to ‘have a good day and to be good boy while you were gone.’ You were unabashedly heading face first into the life of a crazy cat lady.

You were forcing yourself to jog around and around the indoor running track, even though it made you feel like a hamster on a wheel. Your body was begging you to just walk, from your still heavy eyelids to your aching feet. There was also a stitch in your side. You frowned at yourself; you knew you should’ve saved your breakfast until after working out.

You were listening to a [podcast](http://www.radiolab.org/story/update-crispr/) about the future of genetic engineering and the ethical concerns regarding eugenics and the agency of future generations while you jogged. Sure, it was an odd choice, but it was fascinating and did a far better job of keeping you placated and entertained than any bangin’ music could.

As you rounded the circuit of the track your gaze almost immediately landed on a head with dirty blond hair situated near the free weights on the other side of the gym. Steve. You paused your iPod and tugged loose your earbuds. 

You were shocked by his appearance for several reasons. For one, 6:15 am was far too early for you be faced with his handsome visage, stunning your unprepared eyes like sun does when you leave the dark of a movie theater. Secondly, you couldn’t fathom what he was doing in the employee gym rather than working out in the specialized gym for the Avengers and other field agents. And thirdly, weren’t he and the others supposed to be off on some mission that required them to have been pulled from your meeting so abruptly yesterday?

Giving up on running, you walked slowly to your gym bag to wipe at your sweaty face with a towel and gorge yourself on some water before heading toward Steve.

He was curling what looked like a 200 pound barbell as if it were a feather pillow. His cheeks were tinted ever so lightly pink and a single bead of sweat was running down the tensed muscles of his neck. Thank god you had been working out and your sudden lack of breath could be blamed on your jog rather than his unexpected appearance, and those arms. 

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in Argentina right now tracking a weapons dealer? Santino Castillo, was it?” You gave him an unimpressed smirk from the mirrored wall of the gym. “Don’t tell me you guys are making up missions now to get out of my meetings. I might actually get offended.”

His cheeks went from pink to red as his eyes met yours and he placed the barbell down. “Y/N! Uhm, what are you doing here?”

You quirked a brow at him, smirk still in place, “I was just about to ask you the same thing. Don’t you all have a special gym all to yourselves? Also, you didn’t answer my first question.”

The red on his cheeks was still blazing as he rubbed the back of his neck with one arm, the other awkwardly flailing before coming to rest on his hip, “Well as for your first question, we’re not shipping out until later, maybe this afternoon, because of a mechanical error in Tony’s suit, something about the hydraulic stabilizers? He said he would have it fixed last night, but he’s still tinkering on it last I checked.”

“Doesn’t he have more than one suit? Why not just use one of the others?” You asked him, genuinely confused.

“Well, this is Tony we’re talking about,” he remarked as if that were a sufficient reason. “I think he just got his mind set on using this particular model, and well, that was that.”

You snickered through your nose and shook your head, “And that’s that. Yep. Got it.”

“And as for the other question, well, uh, Bucky and Sam started egging each other on over who could deadlift the most weight. And, don’t tell Sam I said this, but Bucky is stronger than Sam—with the serum and the metal arm and all—so they started arguing about that,” he paused, trying not to laugh, “I left when they challenged each other to an arm wrestling contest.”

You grimaced, “Shouldn’t you stop them? One of my friends back in college had his arm snapped while arm wrestling. ‘Course it was a kegger and he’d had like five jaeger bombs…”

“Nah, they’ll be fine. Probably.” He scuffed the tip of his tennis shoe at the floor, “Well, you’ve mentioned the employee gym before, so I thought now might be a good time to come see it.” He held a hand up, hastily adding in an apologetic tone, “But I had no idea you’d be here. I didn’t mean to disturb your workout.”

You rolled your eyes at him, a smile tugging at your face, “You don’t disturb me, Steve. I was just giving you shit. Besides, you’re making all of us in here look like total wimps, so you earned it.” You gestured at the barbell on the floor, with its excess of weight plates.

Steve smiled sheepishly, “Well, that was not my intention.”

“Well, some of the worst things imaginable have been done with the best intentions,” you huffed teasingly.

Steve’s red cheeks blanched at your words. Oops. He did not get your joke, apparently.

“What I meant was, well, I was just joking, but I didn’t inflect my voice to indicate humor,” you were frowning to yourself as you stumbled over your words and rambled, “It’s a line from _Jurassic Park 3_ , you know the one where they’re looking for the kid on the island?” You shook your head, looking down, “It sounded funnier in my head.”

When you finally looked up at Steve, he was staring up at you through his long dark lashes, a bemused expression on his face, “I guess I’ll need to add it to my list.”

“Oh yeah, they’re a bunch of rousing tales of man versus the wild, order versus chaos, science versus nature. Personally, I was rooting for the dinosaurs…But Jeff Goldblum’s in a couple of ‘em, so that’s a plus.” You trailed off, pursing your lips at the awkward silence that followed.

You weren’t really sure what to say to keep the conversation going seeing as how Steve would likely not understand any further discussion of _Jurassic Park_. Why couldn’t you be more naturally articulate when it came to just talking with Steve in particular? It wasn’t hard to banter with Sam or give Tony a hard time for literally anything and everything. It was just Steve who challenged your conversational skills.

You were waiting for him to say something and presumably he was too. While he made a lame attempt at gently stretching his triceps, you busied yourself with rehydrating. You were just about to excuse yourself to the locker room when his phone saved you both from the almost tangible quiet.

He pulled up his message and nodded his head in recognition, “Well, that’s Tony. He’s giving up on the repairs for now and is using a back-up suit instead. So I guess that’s my cue to go get ready to leave.”

“Oh, well, happy trails and all that,” you shrugged nonchalantly, hoping that he wouldn’t see your relief at Tony’s incidentally perfect timing. And even though you would deny it if asked, you bit back a small tingle of disappointment too.

“Thank you, Y/N, for your overwhelming support,” Steve teased, his face softening just a tad for some reason.

“Would you prefer it if I bit my knuckles in worry like those actresses from those 40s dramas. I mean, it might make you feel more at home, so all you have to do is ask.” You were teasing him back and not sounding like a jerk, right? Yeah, you had this.

He smiled, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes, “Well, tell you what, you text me the name of that dinosaur movie, and I’ll send you a couple 40s dramas that have no knuckle biting, deal?”

“You plannin’ on binge watching movies on this mission?”

“Well, we’re not working the full twenty-fours a day,” he paused and smirked, “usually just twenty-two or twenty-three hours. So I’ll need something to do that last hour.”

You finally smiled a real smile at Steve’s lame humor, “Quit with the jokes, Steve. You’ll put Bob Hope out of a job.” 

He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, “Okay, I’m leaving before you get any more jabs in. Gotta go save the world, after all.”

You felt like the teasing was actually working, so you said to his retreating form, “Break a leg, Steve, or, y’know, don’t.”

“Text me the dino movie,” he called over his shoulder, stealing one last glance at you as you watched him walk away, your gaze drifting just below the waistband of his low cut sweatpants, your mind flooding with thoughts that sent warmth throughout your core.

You took as cold of a shower as you could manage when you rushed into the locker room just a few minutes later.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in much the same manner as any other. You signed forms, approved media plans, and avoided small talk with your coworkers in the lunch room at all costs. You were not entirely successful in that last endeavor.

Paul, one of the other publicists on your team about your age who was constantly coming onto you, casually walked up to you while you were rinsing out your tupperware in the sink, leaning against the counter far too close to you. Smooth, Paul, real smooth.

“So, Y/N, got any big plans for the weekend?” He asked with an eager smile, clearly looking for an in with you. He was the kind of man who thought of ‘no’ as a challenge. Because reason would never win out, your tactic was deflection and just general awkwardness.

“As a matter of fact I do, Paul, huge plans,” you said with no inflection in your voice, “I will be trimming Douglass’s butt this weekend because his little poos keep getting caught in his fur. It’ll probably take me until late Sunday. He has a very thick coat, you know.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Paul’s smile falter as he cleared his throat uncomfortably and stepped back just ever so slightly.

You smirked internally. Divert the pervert had been a success. Trying to sound innocent, you returned the question, “And you? Any big plans?”

He smiled hopefully at you, “Well, I had been hoping to see if you’d like to get a drink with me on Saturday?” Wrong move. Divert the pervert had failed.

“Mmm, Saturday night is actually the worst. It’s the first night of the waning moon,” you had no clue what phase the moon was in, “so I need to be able to harness the moon’s dying energy when I shave Douglass’s butt fur to ensure that it won’t grow back too quickly.”

Paul squinted his eyes and gave you a disgustingly teasing smile as he wagged his finger at you, “You know, Y/N, I think you might just be trying to put me off. Are you now?” You wished this were a cartoon so that you could just throw some pocket sand at his face, see if he’d be smiling then.

Instead you opted for a fake sounding monotone laugh and smile to match it, “Now whatever could have given you that idea?” You laughed again, “Ok, Paul, well I need to get back to work. Those media documents won’t edit themselves.” 

Without waiting for a reply, you waved yourself out of the kitchen and sped walk back to your office. As funny as it could sometimes be to mess with Paul, he really was a bit of a creep. But he was also your co-lead on the Smithsonian project because of all his personal contacts there, so all you could really do was to put up with it and just troll him as best as you could. What a fucked up brand of feminism you sometimes practiced.

Later that night as you sipped some tea on your couch, your phone lit up with a message from Steve.

> **Steeeve:** I’m feeling a bit rejected.  
>  You still haven’t texted me that movie.

In the privacy of your apartment with none but Douglass to judge you, you couldn’t stop the girlish giggle that came out. Douglass’s dour face stared at you in apparent disapproval.

> **You:** I’m so sorry Steve.  
>  I will rend my clothes and cut my hair as penance for such a slight.  
>  It’s Jurassic Park. There’s 4 out already and another on the way.

Even though you hated it when women waited by their phones in romantic comedies, here you were doing just that. 

> **Steeeve:** You’re ridiculous in the best ways.

Your heart swelled a little at that.

> **Steeeve:**  Go watch Saboteur 1942  
>  And it’s not a drama, but His Girl Friday, 1940

Even though you were wondering what lengths you might have to go to to find these old movies, you were oddly elated at the idea of watching something that Steve of all people had recommended. 

> **You:** I look forward to them.  
>  Go get some sleep. You’re on a mission you fool.

Not even the usually depressing news could keep that smile off your face the whole rest of the night.

* * *

The next day was Friday, and as such the earth spun more slowly and the day dragged on and on and on. 

You’d consulted with Joyce at the Smithsonian about limiting the number of Avengers who would give formal speeches. And while it took some arm twisting, you were finally on the verge of convincing her that it might not be in everyone’s best interests to compel Bucky and Wanda to give a speech. 

She countered that it would be a lost opportunity given Wanda and Bucky’s redemptions in the public eye, and especially because Bucky, in particular, was gaining more than a little attention on social media as a bit of a heartthrob. Joyce finally caved after a bit more persuasion. She agreed to take their names off the program and add in an extra Sousa march at the beginning of the dedication to fill the extra time.

After you hung up on what was a successful call, you were not too proud to announce to your empty office that you were one hell of a silver tongue. You’d still let Bucky and Wanda come argue their cases to you before letting them know it was already handled. You just didn’t want them thinking that you actually had a soft spot for them or any of the Avengers, which you completely did, though your fondness for Bucky probably had more to do with Steve than anything else.

At lunch as you were eating your banh mi from the little Vietnamese deli down the block, Paul came and sat in the seat right next to you. The table was empty but for you.

“So, Y/N, what’s the gossip around the water cooler today?”

“Paul, I have never spoken to a single person while drinking water ever in my entire life, let alone gossiped.”

Paul laughed at what he perceived as your good natured joking. God, he couldn’t take a hint.

Ok, but in his defense, you _did_ sound pretty much the same when you were joking around as you did when you were being sarcastic and unsociable. 

“Well, any thoughts about Saturday? Still gonna stay in with Dougal?”

“It’s Douglass, and yes.” You took a too big bite of your sandwich to keep you from having to elaborate any further.

“Ahw, c’mon, Y/N. Why spend a Saturday night with Dougie when you could go out with me and enjoy the busy nightlife in the city that never sleeps?”

“His name is Douglass,” you emphasized the final syllable, “And as compelling as your reasoning might be, I hate people, cities, and the night. Cats, on the other hand, are a treasure to womankind.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised is palms in defeat, and continued in a false conciliatory tone, “I guess you’d rather hang out with a cat than your coworker. I get it.”

“Yes, I would.” Ok it was time for the hail mary. You looked him dead the eyes unblinkingly, “In fact, I love spending so much time with Douglass that every year, when I shave his winter coat to keep him cool during the summer, I save all the clippings. I’ve been doing this for years now. So far I’ve saved over ten pounds of his wool. Next spring, I should have enough to spin his fur into yarn and knit a whole sweater so soft that the angels in heaven will cry. Then I can have Douglass with me at all times.” You put your hand on his shoulder, still looking him intently in the eyes, “You know what I mean?” 

He looked dumbfounded. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he settled on a fake smile and said, “Oh ,Y/N, ever the prankster!” He got up from his seat, effectively removing himself from your hand, which had still been holding his shoulder firmly, and said as he made his way to the door, “Well, if you change your mind about Saturday, you’ve got my number.” 

And with that you were left in peace with your banh mi once again.

As you rode the subway home that night, your mind couldn’t help but wander to Steve. Why did only creepy guys like Paul ever hit on you like that. Probably because Steve wasn’t a creep? Oh, who were you kidding, he just wasn’t interested in you like that. It definitely had to be your taciturn affect. Even though Steve could get a little sassy now and then, he was altruistic and kind while you were dark and cynical. Opposites only attract when you’re talking about magnets or buttons and buttonholes. People were neither of those things.

When you got home, you fed Douglass and heated up some leftovers from earlier that week. Once both you and he were sufficiently fed, you popped a bottle of cheap champagne. Who said mimosas were only a brunch time drink? For you, they were more of an ‘I need liquid courage before I attempt to tackle my cat and shave his butt fur’ kind of drink. You downed your mimosa, hardly tasting it in your haste.

Thirty minutes later you were sporting more than a few scratches on your arms, legs, and even on your cheek. You were covered in millions of small fragments of fur, which clung to your skin and clothes like cobwebs. You were downing your second mimosa and scolding Douglass under your breath while he glowered at you from the top of his cat tree when you heard your phone ring from inside your purse.

“I swear to God,” you threatened your empty apartment, “if that’s you, Paul. I’m going disperse that bag of Douglass fur all around your office.

It was Tony. Your heart gave an unpleasant start. There was only one reason why they would ever call you outside of business hours while also being on a mission . Nope, you wouldn’t even entertain that thought for a second.

You answered the call and tried to keep your voice calm, “Tony, you better be calling to tell me that I’m getting a fifty percent raise because I know you would never call me in to work on a Friday night.”

“Y/N, this is serious,” heart, meet the throat, “No one is injured or anything,” you let out a sigh of relief, “But you do need to come in. Now.”

“Okay? What’s the problem? Are we calling a presser, do I need to put on a work outfit?” 

“I think it’s best if you find out in person. And whatever you’re wearing will be fine. It’s just the team.”

You looked down at your fur encrusted sweatpants and t-shirt and the scratches on your arms, some of which were leaking a little blood. You looked absolutely insane. You could at least take a quick neck-down shower, put on some jeans, and change your shirt. Also a bra would be a nice touch.

“Uhh, I mean, okay?” What on earth was so important that you had to come in on a Friday past 9:00 but that he couldn’t tell you about over the phone? “You’re being more that a little cryptic, Tony, but whatever you say. I can be there in about thirty/forty minutes, depending on the train schedule.” You opened your laptop to see what trains were running right now and what their departure times were but were almost immediately thwarted. 

“I’ve got Happy bringing a car by, and he should be pulling up to your building any moment now.”

That sneaky bastard. “Shit, ok. I’ll be down as soon as possible.”

You didn’t wait for a reply before hanging up and sprinting to your room, throwing your soiled garments in the hamper and dressing yourself in record time. You didn’t even take the time to use the bathroom before leaving or to look in a mirror. You did, however, take the time to scratch Douglass’s chin and apologize to him for shaving his butt and yelling at him. After making sure he had enough food and water, you grabbed your work bag and left in haste. 

Happy was leaning against the black SUV, in a black suit and tie. You sometimes wondered if Tony was consciously going for the G-man aesthetic among his personal staff, or if it was all just a coincidence.

He opened the door for you, and you slid in. 

You and Happy had a pretty great relationship. You didn’t talk to him, and he didn’t talk to you. It was downright serene in the back of that SUV.

Within ten minutes he was pulling into the underground garage, where you boarded one of the private elevators that would take you on the long ascent all the way to the residential floors. You seldom went there. After all why would you when the offices below were more conducive to doing business with the team?

The elevator dinged, and it’s doors slid open. You were immediately greeted with a large common area, bookcases lining one wall and tables and lounge chairs littered throughout. To your left was a large sweeping staircase that led up to the kitchen, living rooms, and apartments. The sound of voices floated though the wide open space, and you followed them up the stairs.

You were greeted by the sight of almost the entire team crowding around a small figure, perhaps a teenage boy, sitting at one of the kitchen tables with his back currently facing you.

You cleared your throat to announce your arrival, before speaking, “Alright, you managed to get me too leave my apartment on a Friday night, so this better be good.”

Instead of being met by joking eye-rolls and the usual banter, the room went quiet as everyone turned to look at you. Everyone but the boy that is.

Tony, ever in search of a way to distract from his stress, spoke, “Y/N, what the hell happened to you?” He walked toward you and pulled free a tuft of gray fur that had lodged itself in your hair. “You look like you were mauled by a pack of wolves.”

You grimaced as you took the truss from Tony’s fingers, “No, it was much more prosaic than that. Just a common house cat in need of a haircut.”

You peered around Tony at the boy. Could it be that vigilante kid from Queens he had been tracking? God, he was tiny, and nothing but skin and bones.

“Tony, who’s the kid?” 

“Well that’s why we’ve called you in.” He stepped aside and gestured you toward the table. “He’s not some kid we found, he’s well…?” 

You stepped up to the table and finally got a good look at his face. Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped just like in the old cartoons.

“It’s actually—”

You cut Tony off in shock, “Steve?”

You never should have joked about the waning moon.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwahaha! Sorry not even a little sorry for the cliffhanger. That podcast the reader is listening to will come up again, but you don’t need to listen to it to understand (but you should because it is _amazing_ ). Also, please tell me at least one of you got my tree pun!!


	3. In Which There's More Than One Elephant in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve struggles with being small again while Tony comes up with a plan to ‘cure’ him. Too bad that it means you laying down on the railroad tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is SO long! I don’t know how to shut up.

“Steve? Is that— How— What hap— What?!” Your mind, unable to fully grasp the shocking truth of what it saw, had derailed, turning your mouth into a stuttering and incoherent mess.

It was not a teenaged kid after all. Before you, slumped in his seat, making his already diminutive stature even smaller, his face drawn back, was…Steve? Only he wasn’t the Steve who had been curling over a hundred pounds two days ago. This was the Steve you’d only seen in a handful of old photographs from the 30s and 40s. This was the Steve who had been denied entrance to the Army on multiple occasions. This was the Steve whom Bucky had described as piss and vinegar in a pocket sized packet. 

The open mouthed shock on your face must have still been in place because Steve suddenly groaned and turned away, slamming his head on the table and wrapping his arms around his head. His muffled voice practically cried out, “Please! Just don’t even look at me.”

You collected yourself and closed your gaping mouth, reaching forward to touch his narrow shoulder. “Hey, Steve, I—”

You were immediately silenced by the frantic hand waving and fingers held over lips from the rest of the team members. Even though some of the finer details of body language interpretation often evaded you, the message they were sending you right now was clear: shut the fuck up!

You withdrew your hand and said, “Uh, how about I go get us some drinks? I’m sure I can find my way around the kitchen.” You motioned for Tony to follow.

As soon as you were sufficiently out of earshot, you whisper yelled, “What the fuck, Tony? What the fuck happened? Is it permanent?”

Tony raised his chin in an attempt to get over your string of questions, “One question at a time, Y/N.”

“Well?” While he pulled some liquor out of the nearby cabinet, you began rummaging through a fridge that contained just beverages ranging from bottled water to beer and everything in between. Yes, the Avengers needed multiple fridges, you guessed because of the sheer volume of food and drink they must go through on a daily basis, especially Steve and Bucky. Well maybe not Steve now…

“Long story short, one of the flunkies of Castillo, the arms dealer we’re tracking, shot Steve with a syringe and now he looks like this.” Tony didn’t even bother pouring his Scotch into a glass with one of his fancy spherical ice cubes. He drank it right from the bottle, and that was more than a little disquieting.

“Okay, let’s get you a glass,” you chided, still speaking in a whisper, taking the bottle from his fingers. “So what’s the long story? Because I’m assuming you’ve called me in because it could be catastrophic if this were leaked to the public, that Captain America is weaker than a fifth grader!”

“The long story,” Natasha cut in from her position at the table across the kitchen; apparently you hadn’t been as quiet as you’d assumed, “is that we had bad intel. We walked right into a trap when we tried to bust one of Castillo’s minor distribution warehouses outside of La Plata.” 

You and Tony brought over a variety of beer, wine, and liquor bottles and glasses to match while Natasha continued, reaching across the table for the vodka and a tumbler, “Castillo must have been working on developing a new chemical weapon, something that could take down Captain America or the Winter Soldier without killing them. A sort of symbolic defeat of the strength of the Avengers, one that would make headlines. We have kind of been a thorn in his side for several years now.”

She took a long pull of her vodka, “Unless Steve wants to cut in, I’ll tell you what I saw since I was closest. One of the guards shot Steve, and he went down almost immediately. I shot the guard, but a grenade went off nearby, so I had to duck and cover. When the smoke cleared, I saw Steve under some rubble like this,” she gestured to Steve, who still had his head on the table with his bony arms wrapped around it protectively, “with a syringe sticking out of his neck.”

Natasha continued, “I went and got the rifle, which still had one syringe loaded, and another in his tool belt, picked up Steve, and here we all are.”

There was a moment of contemplative silence, as if Natasha’s retelling of the story, out loud, had finally cemented these events into reality for the first time.

You spoke first, albeit in an uncharacteristically timid tone, “So what was in the syringes? Do we know? I mean, can this,” you hesitated to say it, not wanting to make Steve feel worse than he already apparently did, “can this be reversed?”

Tony chimed in this time, “We don’t know. Banner’s in the lab, running some preliminary tests right now, so that we can see what we’re even working with.” He looked over at Steve, brows furrowed, “At this point we don’t even know if this anti-serum, so to speak, is organic or inorganic compounds. We have no idea. But,” he held up a hand, “Bruce is entertaining the idea that if he and his lab can reverse engineer this anti-serum, he may be able to come up with an ‘anti- anti-serum.’ But that may be a big ‘if’.”

There was another pregnant pause as everyone looked at each other, down into the depths of their drinks, or at some distant, out of focus spot on the walls, ceiling, or floor.

You looked over at Steve, still hiding, still retreating into himself. Then you looked at Bucky who was looking at Steve with a concern you’d never witnessed before. What was going through Bucky’s mind? Worry that his friend was vulnerable again? Anger at the men who did this? Or was there even jealousy? Jealousy that Steve now had the chance to return to an ordinary life, one that wasn’t fraught with danger, guilt, publicity, and out of this world expectations.

You were brought from your ruminations when Tony began to speak again, “And that’s why we need you here, Y/N.”

You looked at him in shock, the realization that they had picked you out of anyone else in the PR department to be sitting here in their kitchen at this very precarious moment.

“Why me?” You shrugged in apparent confusion.

“Because out of everyone in PR, we trust you the most. You’re damn good at this job, and you don’t go telling everyone about in the bars or on social media in the evening. Granted you’re a hell of a smartass, but we like you anyway.” Tony wavered for a moment, smiling slightly, “In short, you’re our favorite.”

You tried to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling in your gut. You’d always known they liked you professionally for your quality work, and that they at least liked you well enough as person to invite you to Tony’s parties and the occasional happy hour…but favorite? Best to deflect before things got emotional, “Okay, geez, don’t write me a love song.”

Sam tilted his head back and rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck that way, “Ahw, take a compliment, Y/N. Besides, we really do need you here. We need you to keep this off the media’s radar, and that includes the Smithsonian dedication next weekend.”

Despite your warm feeling previously, a small irritating suspicion arose within you, “Okay, okay, if any of you think for one moment that you won’t have to be at the dedication next Sunday because of all this, you are mistaken. I had to spend almost two hours on the phone with Joyce, two hours, trying to convince her to not make Bucky and Wanda give speeches.” You looked over at them, “Surprise! And you’re welcome,” you said with mock cheer before returning to the matter at hand, “That woman’s mind is like a fortress, and she was very hard to break. So don’t even ask, not one of you!”

Sam interjected, holding his hands up in surrender, “None of us are asking to get out of this, but you can’t deny that Steve can’t go. Banner said they could reverse engineer the anti-serum in a day or two, but coming up with a cure that won’t melt his face off or turn him into a green rage-monster? That could take weeks, so he’ll need a cover story.”

You could hear Steve shift in his seat slightly.

“I, uh, I guess I could tell her that Steve’s on a mission. No, that wouldn’t work because then we’d have to make up a whole mission to sell to our own PR and defense departments,” you were thinking aloud, “Course you all do this kind of thing all the time when you go deep undercover and do shadow missions or whatever the hell you call that super-secret shit…” 

The others knew you well enough not to interrupt one of your thought trains, “I guess we could just say he was grievously injured on this mission, which would be closer to the truth and, therefore, an easier lie to maintain—”

Steve stood abruptly, his small hands balled into even smaller fists, “You know, you can all stop talking about me like I’m not here. I’ve been sitting here the whole time. Do any of you even care to hear what I have to say on the matter?”

You were stunned. His face, which still so closely looked like the Steve you’d seen just days ago, was contorted into an angry frown, and it was directed right at you, “Steve, I—”

“Save it, Y/N, all of you.” And with that he stalked across the open common area and to the hall that led to his quarters.

You wanted to run after him and apologize but to also demand an explanation. What had you said that had set him off? You felt a clenching sensation in your chest that you hadn’t ever felt around him. You didn’t know why, but his anger felt more hurtful than if the entire rest of team had just yelled at you instead. Ok, you did know why; you just didn’t want to put words to that irresistible pull you felt toward him.

Bucky stood slowly from the table, “Y/N, don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. Steve, he’s just, well, let me go see if I can talk to him.” He gave you and the rest a tight-lipped smile before turning and shuffling toward Steve’s room.

Whether Steve was offended or not and whether you were hurt or not was irrelevant at the moment. You had a job to do, and you’d be damned if you let this sudden wave of emotion distract you.

“Well, we do need a cover if we want to make sure this doesn’t get out,” you kept your voice flat and emotionless. “I think it’s best that we just say he was injured badly. The closer a lie is to the truth, the easier it is to maintain. Believe me, I would know.”

Tony’s face shot up in amused surprise, “Now what on earth is that supposed to mean? How often do you lie to me? Wait, were you really out with the flu when you bailed on the Superbowl party last fall?” It had to be the Scotch talking, that and Tony’s proclivity to getting sidetracked.

“Not that this has anything to do with anything that matters, but yeah, I lied that time,” you let a small smug grin make its way onto your face. “I didn’t have the flu, but my landlady did…But, what I meant is that I’m always lying to that creep Paul about my weekend plans when he hits on me, but I keep my lies close to the truth. For instance, when he asked me what I would be doing tomorrow night, I told him I’d be doing this.” You gestured to the bits of fur that were still clinging to your skin and hair and the small, now scabbed over, scratches on your arms. “It’s easy to lie when it’s almost not a lie.”

Shaking your head at the long diversion, you continued, “Steve really was shot down on this mission; we simply conceal in what manner and the let people’s imaginations fill in the rest. Can we bring in Dr. Cho? I know she’s all the way in Hong Kong, but bringing her in would help support our story,” you pursed your lips as you thought, “Plus she and her team could probably be of immense help to Dr. Banner and his team.”

“I’ll have Happy make the arrangements,” Tony said, regaining his composure but still marveling at you slightly.

“Great, and I guess I’ll need to draft a press release for Mon—”

“Why on earth would we publicize this more than we need?” Sam asked, raising his voice slightly.

“Because we have nothing to hide,” you looked at him pointedly, “isn’t that right?” You raised your brows at him as he finally realized what you were getting at. You continued, “If we try to cover this up completely, people will notice, people will have questions, and the media will give voice to those questions. So the more open we are about this, even if it is all a bunch of bull shit, the more likely we will be able to sell it. Plus, it’s best to release the information now, rather than right before the Smithsonian dedication.”

You looked around the room for opinions when Vision spoke up. This would either be brilliant or patience testing.

“I wonder at your reasons for needing the world to remain ignorant of Steve’s condition. Moreover, I find myself questioning whether we are intent on returning Steve to his soldier’s body for his sake or if it is for ours.”

“Well, I can speak for the first one, I think,” you muttered that last bit under your breath. “If we do manage to get Steve, y’know, strong again, we can’t have the world thinking that he could be taken down by something as seemingly benign as an injection. Soldiers, super or otherwise, can be taken down by bullets, but a serum that reduces Captain America to just another man? Like Nat said, that’s a symbolic defeat, one that exposes not human frailty, but the potential impotence of our super heroes. And that kind of uncertainty in your leaders and protectors can foster anxiety in the minds of the public and make our criminals more brazen.” You hesitated before adding, “And if this condition is permanent, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Rhodey chimed in next, “I mean, Vision has a point. What if Steve just wants to be Steve? I’m not trying to start a conversation on body positivity, but are we maybe just a bit too eager to ‘cure’ Steve because we want Captain America back? I can see how he might feel a bit used in all this, that we don’t care about him just as he is.”

And that was the elephant in the room, well one of them anyway. You couldn’t deny that Vision and Rhodey might be onto something, but it wasn’t your call to make. Favorite or not, you were just a publicist. You didn’t get a say in the running of the Avengers, just in how it was reported. You just hoped Steve held more sway in his own fate.

The others were still talking and debating the merits of curing Steve or not, but you were useless in philosophical discussions such as these, so you let your mind drift away from the voices and began to get started on the press release that would need to go out before Monday.

It was well past midnight when you finally finished the press release and sent it off to Paul and a couple other team members for revisions. You took a secret joy in sending Paul a work email that he would have to answer in the morning. Enjoy your Saturday now, Paul.

You stretched and looked around as the still ongoing debate came into your focus. Apparently, the alcohol had made the conversation get a little heated. If you’d had no desire to get involved when the conversation had been civil, you definitely didn’t want to touch it now. 

You quietly packed your things and were about to slip out unnoticed when Tony saw you. 

“Y/N, where are you going? We need you here. What are your thoughts on this matter?”

Shit, busted. “Tony, it’s almost one in the morning. I finished the press release, and we should have it sent out by tomorrow, noon at the latest, but not until the rest of my team reviews it in the morning. I’m tired, I’m still covered in fur and blood, and I want to go home to see Douglass and take a very long shower. I have no interest in debating Steve’s agency in this whole catastrophe, especially if he’s not here to throw in his own two cents. Just a bit too much irony for me to stomach, y’know?” You took a deep breath after your lengthy monologue.

“Hey, easy there. I get it. Go home and get some rest. Happy’s gone home, but I’ll have a driver waiting for you in the garage.” He was about to put a hand on your shoulder, but he pulled back at the last second and put his hand in his pocket when he realized that you must have rubbed some of the fur trimmings off of your skin onto the shirt. “Can you come back in the morning? We really need you on this.”

“Of course, Tony. I’ll be in by nine.” And with that, you reached out and pulled him into a furry hug, snickering at his disgust and struggles. “Mmm,” you hummed into the hug, “Goodnight, Tony.”

The last thing you heard as you boarded the elevator was Tony grumbling about you ruining his nice black shirt.

* * *

You arrived early to the tower the next morning and were shocked by just how quiet it was. You’d been here on weekends before; after all, working with the Avengers was nothing if not busy. But the shock of the empty building, which was usually a hive of activity, never failed to amaze you.

You stopped off at your floor to get some files and notes from your office that you might need today before stepping into the elevator and typing in your access code to get to the residential floors. 

When you climbed up the wide open staircase, there were no voices filtering down this time. You glanced at your watch. 8:27 am, half an hour early. Everyone was probably still training or showering right now.

When you stepped up the final flight of stairs, you realized the floor was not entirely unoccupied. At the table, in much the same posture as you had seen him in last night, was Steve, looking down at a large plate of breakfast food with apparent apprehension. There had to be at least four scrambled eggs, a large pile of fried potatoes, several slices of sausage, and ten or more pieces of bacon, in addition to the brimming bowl of melon pieces and berries.

“You know, the longer you let that sit at room temp, the more likely you are to get a foodborne illness,” you teased, hoping that for once in your damn life it actually came out sounding nice.

Steve looked up at you, slightly startled. With the loss of his super strength, he must have also lost some of his enhanced senses. “Didn’t hear you come in.” He put his chin in his hands and continued to stare dejectedly at his food. “I forgot how little I used to eat. I think I made too much food.”

“I’ll say! That’s like a whole pack of bacon. Gimme some.” Without waiting for his assent, you reached down and grabbed a piece. 

He actually cracked a small smile finally. You took the seat on the side of the table next to him, finally getting a good look at the new Steve. He was unimaginably thin, almost frail looking. He couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds, tops. There were dark circles under his eyes that faded into sallow and sunken cheeks. But there was something about his eyes, the way he held his head, and the way he had just spoken that was still so uniquely Steve. He was still in there, even if the package had changed.

You realized you were staring when he cleared his throat and looked up at you, his brow wrinkled in question.

“It’s that bad, huh,” he said self-deprecatingly. 

You knew exactly what he was talking about—himself—but you weren’t going to let him feel sorry for himself like that, nor would you let him drag you into it. You loathed pity of any kind, self-pity above all.

“Yeah, this bacon does taste a bit salty this morning,” you said flatly, staring him in the eyes.

He sucked in a breath, his smile turning to one of slight exasperation. “Very funny, Y/N. You know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know, fool.” You just let the sentence hang in the air, before continuing. “Have you ever seen the movie, _Hook_?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head, no doubt taken aback at the sudden change in topic.

“Well it’s a retelling of Peter Pan, only it’s set in modern times and he’s all grown up, like forty years old, and has forgotten all about Neverland, Captain Hook, the Lost Boys, and everything. Right?” You picked up another piece of bacon and nibbled at it, continuing, “Well he gets brought back to Neverland, and no one recognizes him because he’s so much older and has a middle aged man-belly. But Pockets, one of the Lost Boys, manages to see past Peter’s glasses and wrinkles,” you looked at him meaningfully, “and denial and self-doubts to the real Peter Pan underneath. Even though Peter forgot who we was, Pockets knew him. Even though he was old, out of shape, and couldn’t fly, Pockets still believed in him.”

Steve huffed impatiently and pushed his plate toward you, “Y/N, why are you telling me this?”

You sneered slightly, “Wait, are you serious? ‘Cause I thought I was layin’ it on pretty thick with that heavy handed metaphor. You are Peter Pan. I am Pockets. This table is Neverland. The Avengers are the Lost Boys. And Tony is Tinkerbell…most likely.”

“You think I have a gut?” He asked, smirking slightly.

“Oh my god. You’re unbelievable,” you grumbled, giving him your best resting bitch face.

“Look, I appreciate you trying to cheer me up or whatever, but I don’t need your pity.” He cast his eyes down, twiddling his fingers and thumbs.

Ok, no more trying to be nice. “I do _not_ pity you, Steve. I was just using a dumb pop-culture reference to make my point. I get that you’re pissed about us talking about you last night like you weren’t there. I really do. But you were the one hiding under your arms the whole time. I don’t care if they change you back or not because I don’t see much difference in you now except in how you look. Either way you’re still the same overly-dramatic smartass you were two days ago.” You threw your piece of bacon down on the plate in front of you, not even trying to hide your deepening frown.

“Thanks,” he whispered so softly that you almost couldn’t hear him, but you could tell he actually meant it.

“Sure, cool,” you muttered, still feeling irritated.

“I guess, I dunno. I suppose I got so used to being Steve Rogers, Captain America, that I almost forgot what it felt like to be this small and weak. I just, I don’t want you to look at me any differently,” his sallow cheeks suddenly flushed with color, “or anyone, for that matter.”

Your face softened as did your voice, even if it still came out a little flat, “I know. But for what it’s worth, I don’t _see_ you any differently, even if you do look a little different. I can still see the Steve I know peeking out through the self-pity.”

He sighed, reluctantly grinning, “Hey now, was that last part really necessary?”

You looked up at the ceiling innocently, “Maybe not, but I was callin’ ‘em like I see ‘em.”

His grin finally almost grew to full size, and you really could see the Steve you knew peeking out just a tad as he said, “Well, you were right about one thing at least. Tony really is Tinkerbell.”

Tony’s voice sounded from the top of the stairs as he entered the area with Banner in tow, shattering whatever this moment with Steve had been, “You’re damn right I am. I have a suit that flies, and everything I do is magic.” He smirked, walking up to the table. “I see you helped yourself to our kitchen, Y/N.” He looked at the large plate that now rested in front of you, smiling and bouncing on the balls of his feet as more of the others came filing in from training.

“Oh, no this isn’t— I didn’t— Steve made the food.” You looked over to Steve accusingly, who hid a smile and looked away innocently. Yeah, that was definitely Steve still in there. Little shit. You smiled at him despite yourself. Looking back at Tony, now frowning, you grumbled, “Anyway, what are you so chipper about this morning? It’s way too early to be smiling like that.”

Tony smirked with the glee of knowing a secret surprise, “Actually, I’ll let Bruce have the honors. Bruce?” 

Everyone who had previously been busying themselves with making breakfast or stealing from Steve’s plate, which was mostly just Sam, came to a halt. Bruce and Tony must’ve had good news.

Dr. Banner in his uniquely awkward manner stepped forward and absent-mindedly wiped his glasses on the corner of his shirt before speaking, “Ah, well, it took all night, but we’ve reversed engineered Castillo’s anti-serum. Pretty easy actually, just mass spectroscopy and some digital imaging using our latest models of electron microscopes.” 

Another ringing silence hung in the air until that became too intense for Sam, “C’mon man, and?” He practically threw his fork at Banner in his impatience.

“And,” Banner looked at Sam intentionally, “We’re fairly certain we can come up with an equal but opposite compound, something that might be able to counter the effects of what Steve was shot with. What Tony called the anti- anti-serum.”

Your gaze darted to Steve, who looked oddly impassive at this announcement. 

Banner was still speaking, “But in order for us to potentially be successful, we would need some other supplies, and…” He trailed off.

“And that’s where you come in, Y/N.” Tony was looking at you with an unsettling smile.

You regarded Tony, brows wrinkled, before asking in a monotone, “What.”

“We need your help in getting some chemicals and a tiny piece of equipment for Dr. Cho and Bruce.” Tony still had that discomforting grin on his face.

“I, uh, what?” You stuttered briefly before finding your words, “I’m not certain if you’re aware of what I do for living, Tony, but as a PR rep, I don’t have much experience with chemistry, or biology, or whatever it is that Banner does in his labs all day. I fail to see how this involves me.” You were almost glowering at him by the end of your speech. What on earth was he on about?

“Whoa whoa, easy there, Sassafras. Of course I don’t mean that you should get involved in the science part and lab work, but we do need your persuasive skills to obtain said items.”

You were suspicious of where this was going, “Okay?”

“You mentioned that Paul, your co-lead on the Smithsonian project, has the hots for you, right?”

Really, where was this going? “...yeah?”

“This chemical and this item, well, we can’t get to them because they are currently being housed in the Smithsonian storage archives.” You were staring at him in confusion, shock, and irritation. “We need to be able to get into the Smithsonian and retrieve the Vita Radiation pod from Dr. Erskine’s original experiment and the trace remnants of the original serum that are still, most likely, trapped in its syringes and tubing. And we need you to get us in.”

You must have looked like a carp, opening and closing your mouth repeatedly, gasping for air, willing some intelligible form of language to come out. “I’m sorry, what? How, how am I supposed to do that?” You were dumbfounded, “And what does this have to do with Paul? Why not just ask the directors of the Smithsonian to let you borrow it? You’re a fucking billionaire; I doubt they’d say no.”

“Actually, they might,” you and the others turned to look at Steve, “This was before you were working here, back when most of us were still at Shield. You remember the incident in DC?” You nodded, “Well, I may have stolen my old uniform from the Captain America exhibit for the fight with Hydra and…They’re still a bit sore about that.” 

“Wait, you’re telling me you broke into the Smithsonian and stole an outfit? So that you could fight, in that outfit?”

You could hear Bucky and Sam stifling their laughter as Steve rolled his eyes and ignored your question, “Well, technically it was, and still is, mine, so it’s not quite stealing. The point being, that I doubt they’d just let us just waltz on in there to borrow a piece of history. The security guard there almost lost his job. We had to intervene, but then it turned out his work papers were falsified, and then [he disappeared without a trace](https://eufeme.tumblr.com/post/168843084189/wintersbabe-stan-lee-is-the-watcher-in-the). Long story short, they’ve got a grudge. But, that said, I have no idea what Tony’s getting at.”

You shook your head, “Okay, they hate you, got it. Could have fooled me though because they’ve kept the exhibit, and as far as they know right now, you’re still giving a speech for them next Sunday.” You sighed in frustration, “Tony, care to enlighten us?”

Tony looked as though he wanted to laugh, “I’ll cut right to the chase. We want you to get close to Paul, get his past his defenses, and get us the passcode to the Smithsonian archives where the Vita Radiation pod is currently being housed for the move. I know he knows the code to get in. He kept bragging to Pepper at that Superbowl party—the one you faked being sick to get out of—about how he has the codes to every building. His father is on the board of regents.”

Your mind was spinning as you attempted to keep up with what Tony seemed to be asking.

“Tony, just, what?” You were beyond done with his piecemeal information. 

“In short, Y/N, we need you to go on a date with Paul.”

On your other side, Steve suddenly choked on the orange juice he’d been drinking. Shit.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can’t believe this part is so LONG. Thank you to my Tumblr reader, @spinsterlocity, for the Sassafras line! Part 4 will probably be out early next week.


	4. In Which Natasha and Wanda “She’s All That” You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reluctantly agree to a date with Paul, but only because of these damn feelings you keep having about Steve. Nat and Wanda dress you a bit out of your comfort zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the chapter title is a reference to B99′s reference to She’s All That. This and Pt 5 were originally going to be just one part but it was over 7,000 words….so I split it. Wtf is wrong with me.

“You want me to what?” You practically shouted at Tony. Steve was coughing and mopping at his face with his napkin, Sam was openly laughing at you, and Tony. Tony. He was practically grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go on a date with Paul and pump him for information?”

“Pretty much. Desperate times.”

“Wow, that’s just great, Tony.” You were scowling as you moved your gaze down at the breakfast plate, which was still in front of you, trying to figure out what to say. “You want me to do anything else with him besides go on a date? Maybe get a motel room that rents by the hour? I mean, if I’m going to whore myself out for the cause I might as well get the most out of it.”

Tony held up a finger, “Now, no one is asking you to actually do anything with him. Just get him drunk and loose enough that he’ll start bragging about his father and his connection with the Smithsonian. You get the code, we get the pod, we cure Steve, we put the pod back, and no one at the museum is ever the wiser.”

You still weren’t having it, “Okay, let’s pretend for a moment that stealing from the Smithsonian is a swell plan. Why not just have Natasha hack in and disable the security systems? If not her, you’ve got some of the best computer engineers working here. Literally any one of them could do the job.”

Natasha intervened, “Now, not that I’m condoning prostituting Y/N out for information, but,” she turned her gaze to you, “we can’t hack the system without them finding out about it eventually, and that could be a problem. Tony helped the Smithsonian upgrade their cybersecurity as part of the apology for Steve stealing his jumpsuit.”

You tried not to glare at Steve, who was looking just a tad sheepish, “Okay, perfect, so Tony knows the system inside and out, right? We make a backdoor or whatever hacking shit so they don’t know about it.”

Tony stepped in this time, “Not gonna work because some of those same ‘best of the best’ computer engineers, who used to work for me, now work for the Smithsonian. They’d detect us before we even got into the system.”

“So bribe them. I think we’ve all come to place where none of us are above bribing.”

Tony pursed his lips, “Have you ever wondered how some blackmailers get their start? It’s usually when someone bribes them to keep a secret, and they just keep wanting more, more, more.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll blackmail you,” you bit back.

“See I know you’re not going to blackmail me because of two things: I’m going to give you that raise you’ve been bugging me about, and then some. And I know you won’t do it because you love us all too much.” He batted his eyes at you sarcastically, causing you scoff and roll yours. “Look, obviously we can’t make you do this. It’s your call. But,” he added hesitantly, “we have to get that vita radiation pod if we want even a snowball’s chance in hell to get Steve back the way he was. And if we just ask them for it, they’ll want to know why. And you’ve said it yourself, the world can’t know that Captain America can be taken down by an injection.”

Your own words from the night before echoed in your head as you weighed the million options that lay before you. There was something about what Tony had just said. _Get Steve back the way he was_. You thought of what Vision and Rhodey had said the night before. You thought of the way Steve’s face had been filled with anger and hurt. Captain America had been some muscular shell cooked up in a lab in the 40s, but Steve? He was the real deal; he was the real hero and then some.

“But he is back the way he was,” your voice barely made a sound. You looked over at Steve, who was looking at you with an unreadable expression—unreadable to you anyway. “Steve? Your thoughts?”

He opened his mouth and looked at some of the others before responding, “Well, I’m a fighter. But I can’t fight like this,” he looked down at his now mostly empty glass of orange juice, “I’m supposed to be Captain America, I need to be.” He shrugged his shoulders, but then looked back up to you, “But I can’t ask you do this. That Paul guy is a real creep, and you don’t deserve to be put in that kind of position under any circumstances. We’ll just have to find another way to get an antidote.”

Real deal hero indeed. You regarded him as you thought back to your conversation with him earlier. He wanted to go back to being strong, desperately so. He wanted to fight the good fight and all that heroic shit that you’d never understood but accepted as a part of who he was. Go on a date with Paul for Steve? Shit, you’d climb all the way to the top of Mount Everest for Steve, frostbitten toes and nose and all. You’d climb to the summit and then eat a bushel of beets as your first meal to commemorate your achievement, and you hated beets. You’d do pretty much anything for Steve. And while this revelation scared the shit out of you, that was a thought train for another day. 

You caved. 

You looked back at Tony, and said tentatively, “I’ll do it, but I have some conditions.” It sounded more like a question.

Tony just looked at you expectantly, his mouth tugging up, “Shoot.”

You took a deep breath, “I can’t work with Paul after this. If he was harassing me before, he’ll be relentless now. It seems unfair to punish him or demote him though—I mean we are using him and toying with his emotions, even if he is a modern Mr. Collins—so none of that.” 

“Done, I need one of our team down in DC to act as a liaison between the Avengers and the Smithsonian anyway. He was always the natural choice, and it’s neither a promotion nor a demotion.”

You nodded slowly as you took another measured breath, “And whatever ends up happening with his job and all this, I want you to put him through sexual harassment training.” You counted on your fingers, “A. He’s needed it for a long time, B. I don’t want him getting the idea that his pestering of me has worked, that this date is a reward for all his efforts, and C. I can’t in good conscience foist him off onto other working women in this condition.”

Tony nodded along as you spoke, “Absolutely.” 

“Okay,” you paused and looked vacantly at the table. “I’m going on a fake date with Paul. Great. Cool. Fantastic.”

You supposed it was just because of the guilt he felt for you doing all this that Steve looked more than a little uncomfortable as he fiddled with his fingertips. Bucky took a seat next to him, very gently clapping him on the shoulder with his gloved metal hand, and gave him a reassuring but subdued smile. Tony, Nat, and Sam leaned in around the table while Clint, Wanda, and Vision busied themselves in the kitchen with cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Bruce, you just now noticed, had long returned to his lab. And you were sitting there in your same seat, wondering what the hell you were getting yourself into.

“Well then, how do we want to do this?” You asked with some reluctance.

Tony responded, “Call Paul, put the phone on speaker, and we’ll walk you through it.”

You scoffed at his presumption and gave a bitter laugh, “Tony, I do not need you to walk me through it. I think I know how to ask someone out.”

Sam at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he said, “I mean, now don’t take it personally, but I’ve seen you try to flirt, and you sometimes come off a little, I dunno, threatening.” 

“Threatening? I’ll have you know I’m very good at flirting!” In your mind, you knew that was a lie, but your pride was at stake; hence you dug your heels in deeper.

“Y/N, you know that that’s a lie,” Tony taunted, his eyes barely flitting to Steve’s form. You hoped no one else had noticed that. “I have also witnessed you attempting to flirt, on several occasions, and well, let’s just say there’s room for growth.”

“When have you ever seen me flirt?” You saw Tony’s eyebrows raise in amusement, “No, wait. Please, don’t answer that. Nat, can you back me up?”

The normally calm and collected spy stuttered slightly, “Well, uh, Y/N, you’re very talented in many other ways.”

You looked at Bucky pleadingly, and he gave you a sympathetic tight lipped smile. Goddammit.

Apparently, there was some unspoken consensus that you were not good at flirting, which while completely true was, well, frustrating. Did that mean they had seen you try to maybe, sort of, almost flirt with Steve. The thought turned your stomach, that there may have been witnesses to your private moments with Steve. 

Moreover, did Steve feel the same way? Had he always noticed your lame attempts to flirt with him and just said nothing? Probably because he felt sorry for you? You couldn’t bring yourself to look at his face for confirmation or refutation of the others’ claims.  


You scoffed, “Well, I’ll have you know that creeper Paul loves it when I verbally abuse him and make an ass of myself in the break room, apparently, because that’s all I’ve ever done with him. So just let me handle this. I got it.”

You dialed Paul’s number, and the sound of his phone ringing rattled from the tinny speaker around the table. 

“As I live and breathe, Y/N is actually calling Paul,” his voice, though muffled, was filled with exaggerated mirth.

“Please don’t refer to yourself in the third person. It’s really weird.” You could see Tony clap his hand over his eyes and forehead while Sam put his head down on the table.

But to their surprise, a low chuckle sounded from your phone, “Oh, Y/N. Always ribbing me. So please tell me that you’re calling to tell me that you’ve changed your mind about tonight?”

You looked at Tony and Sam with such smugness that you were sure the muscles in your eyebrows were going to get a cramp, “As a matter of fact,” you took a deep shuddering breath, “I am. Bu- bu- bu-,” you called over his sounds of jubilation, “it’s gonna be on my terms, pal.”

You could hear him chuckle a little, “You do like to take the helm. So, where’ll it be?” Natasha shook her head slightly in a way that said, don’t get sassy, as Tony slid over a list of several cocktail lounges and dressy cafés to choose from. But to you, they sent the wrong idea: that you cared about this date.

You rolled your eyes and stuck your tongue out in disgust, “There’s a sport’s bar over in Hell’s Kitchen that I go to a lot, Ken’s Icehouse. They’ve got really cheap beer and hotwings.” You couldn’t miss Natasha’s look of, was that respect or exasperation? Both? “We can meet there at—”

“Actually, can I pick you up?” He cut you off with his question.

“Uh, that’s gonna be a no. I’m at the tower today anyhow working on the press release that I sent you but you haven’t yet responded to. We can meet at there at 7:00.” Even you could see how exasperated Tony, Sam, and Natasha looked, clearly unimpressed with your wooing, or lack thereof. Bucky was smiling in amusement, occasionally shooting a glance to Steve, who was still sitting silently in his seat, staring down at his folded hands. He looked rather ill, almost like he was nauseated, and you figured his too big of a breakfast wasn’t sitting well.

“I will count down the hours and minutes,” came Paul’s voice, and you rolled your eyes at him, wishing he could somehow see you through the phone, “Glad you finally decided to choose me over Dougie.” 

“For the last time, it’s Douglass, and that is absolutely not what is happening right now.” Your words came out harsh. No one, not even Steve, could ever get between you and your Douglass.

Paul didn’t seem to give much notice the bite in your response though, as he gave you a friendly goodbye and hung up.

“If I lean back in my chair till it tips backward, do you think I’ll wake from this nightmare?”

Tony just smirked, “Well, you’re not in _Inception_ , so no.” You just let your eyes go slack and flared your nostrils, hoping it conveyed your utter lack of I literally can’t with you. “Let’s get some work done here with that press release, and then I’ll have Nat drive you home to get dressed for the date.”

“What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?” You looked down at your jeans and sweater. Surely this was adequate for a fake date with Paul.

“Wear something nice.” He gave you a close lipped smile through squinted eyes. Best to just go with it.

“Fine, but there’s one more condition then,” you sighed.

“Sure thing.” 

“I want you to make me a reservation at Peter Luger Steakhouse, your dime.” You could see a surprised if perplexed wrinkle form on his brow.

“Okay, you want me to take you to a steakhouse?”

“Yeah, Tony, I want you to take me to the best steakhouse in all of New York,” and with oil of Eric Cartman, spat out, “I like to be wined and dined if I’m gonna get completely fucked.”

* * *

Several hours later you were back in your apartment feeding Douglass while Wanda and Natasha rifled through your bedroom closet.

“Y/N,” Natasha’s voiced called from your room, “All your dresses and skirts look like they were made for a 60s librarian. Also, do you own anything that isn’t gray or brown?”

You smirked and rolled your eyes, “I’ll have you know that Paul sees me in those clothes every day and still stalks me every lunch. Just sayin’.” You decided you ought to make your way back to your room and keep an eye on them rather than Douglass calmly picking at his kibble.

The sight that met you when you turned the corner into your room made your mouth immediately turn downward. In Wanda’s beaming embrace was a dress from younger days: skirt too short and neckline too low. This sent the message that you were interested, when the exact opposite was the truth.

“Why was this hidden all the way in the back of the closet? What else are you hiding.” Wanda teased through a cheeky smile.

“Well, you haven’t found my expansive collection of Victorian dolls and basket of clown masks yet…” You trailed off, realizing that she might actually take you seriously. When Wanda just rolled her eyes, you added, “But I’m definitely not wearing that. I bought it a long time ago for the few times I got dragged to a club. I loathe it. Besides, I don’t want Paul getting any ideas if he sees me wearing that.”

“Well maybe Paul won’t be the only one getting ideas,” she gave you one of her looks, the kind that reminded you that she could enter someone’s thoughts at any given moment, whether willingly or by accident.

“I don’t even want to know what you mean by that.” You actually had a very good idea what—or rather, who—she meant by that. But, you brushed it off as you began to rummage through the hangers in your closet. Had your back not been facing Wanda and Natasha, you might have seen the knowing look of exasperation they exchanged with each other, as if they could see something that you couldn’t. But you didn’t see any of it.

“What about this?” You held up a black pleated skirt that fell just below your knees and the one top you owned that had any color to it, however slight.

Natasha looked at the outfit, then you, and with a perfect poker face simply said, “No.” She held the shorter dress up again.

You sighed in surrender as you took the wretched garment as they walked out of your room to let you change. You knew how to pick your battles, and this was one you’d never win.

After you had dressed, you joined Wanda and Natasha the bathroom where they proceeded to go full on teen movie makeover montage on you. Even though you had a lot of wild shades of eye shadow, lipstick, and the works—because who ever throws out old makeup, really—you rarely touched any of it. More from sheer laziness and apathy than good body confidence or a smug rejection of makeup, you tended for a light touch when it came to cosmetics. This was not the case tonight.

When you got up from the toilet lid you’d been sat on, you expected to find Pennywise staring back at you from the bathroom mirror. However, you were pleasantly surprised by the fancy woman whom you saw instead.

“I never should have doubted your skills, either of you,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes slightly even though you actually meant it.

Wanda gave you one of those Looks again, smiling at you, “Well, just because you’re about spend an evening with a creep doesn’t mean that you can’t look nice for the rest of us.”

You heard Natasha mumble something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Steve’s name, but you quickly wrote that off as wishful thinking.

“Alright,” she now said audibly, “Let’s get you to that dump of a bar.”

“Hey now, I’ll have you know that Ken’s is a quality establishment.”

* * *

Before you knew it, Natasha, Wanda, and you were pulling up behind a stereotypical white van with no windows where Tony and Sam would monitor the situation and step in if something should go wrong. To your surprise, you saw Steve’s diminutive form leaning against the back wheel well, wearing a ball cap low over his forehead and plush scarf around his neck, which you supposed doubled as a concealing garment as well as protection against the rather chill breeze. Not that he much needed to conceal himself as his stature alone kept the casual passersby from even taking notice of him, let alone making the connection to Captain America.

As you awkwardly climbed out of back seat of Natasha’s low sports car in your too short dress, you felt that same cold breeze hit you. Damn it, damn this skimpy dress. You could have at least been allowed a cardigan, but Natasha said that it looked frumpy. 

With Wanda’s words still echoing slightly in your mind, you couldn’t help but to look over at Steve. He had a faraway look on his face, but his eyes were locked on you. You could feel your throat and face grow warm slightly despite the chilly air. Maybe the dress wasn’t a completely horrible idea after all.

“Hey, Steve. Wasn’t expecting you here.”

He looked at you expectantly, his eyes still drifting to the neckline of your dress. Yeah you were glad it was cold outside. “Well, I just figured I should come since you’re only doing this for me.” 

Not sure how to respond in either a flirty or reassuring way, you just clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Ah, well what are friends for if not fake dating harmless perverts for information.” His face fell slightly. Dammit. There had been a moment, you were sure of it, and you just ruined it. The others were right: you sucked at flirting.

Just then, Tony opened the rear door and ushered you and Steve inside as Natasha and Wanda pulled out and headed back to the tower. Once inside the cramped van, Tony handed you a ring with what looked like a large black opal. You quirked a brow questioningly at him.

“It’s a bug,” he explained. “There’s a camera hidden inside and a small mic on the underside of the setting.”

You put the ring on your right ring finger, relieved that it fit. “Ok, why the camera? I get that you want the audio to make sure we don’t lose or forget the codes, but why video too?”

Tony gave you a look as though it should be obvious why, “The video is to ensure that should Paul ever realize his mistake in letting those passcodes slip, we will at least have footage of him openly spilling museum secrets as leverage to convince him to remain silent.”

You squinted your eyes a bit, “I thought we were above blackmail, Tony.”

“Don’t think of it as blackmail,” he hesitated, looking up slightly, “more like insurance.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” you held the fake gem close to your eye, “Are yall getting this?”

“Ifts workign fine,” Sam mumbled through a mouthful of food.

You were stunned by him for a second, “Dammit, Sam! Did you seriously bring popcorn?”

He swallowed his mouthful and cleared his throat, “Look, a man’s gotta eat. Plus,” he added with a wry smile, “this should be entertaining.”

You just looked at him flatly, “Well I’m glad at least one person besides Paul will be enjoying this.”

Steve, who was sitting next to you, handed you a tiny earpiece that was the same color as your skin, “Don’t worry, Y/N, you’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.” 

As you placed it in your ear and began fiddling with it, you were reminded of how he had reassured you just a few days previously, “Like talking to a kindergartener, Steve. I got this.”

You glanced over at his all too familiar eyes and forced yourself to smile through the sudden wave of nerves as he softly smiled back. You were still fussing with the small uncomfortable earpiece when he reached up.

“Here, let me,” he pulled the earpiece out, his fingers brushing against your skin, and began to reform the foam padding on it, “These can take a while to get used to, but with a little tweaking…There, try that.” 

You took the earpiece from him and fitted it into your ear, this time with much more success. You tried to ignore the way he was looking at you, ignore how you could still feel his fingers ghosting across your jaw and earlobe, ignore these thoughts that were foolish and would only distract you from your current mission. Mission. That singular word halted your train of thoughts. You were no field agent. Hell, you weren’t even a desk agent. You were you: an office worker, an ordinary person. The only covert thing you’d ever done was to sneak booze into that music festival that one time when you were in college. This was new and utterly foreign to you.

Steve’s soft hand on your shoulder pulled you from your thoughts, “Hey, you’re going to be fine.”

You shook off the few lingering thoughts, “I know. I’ve just never done this sort of thing before. What if Paul knows? What if he finds out all this is just a ruse? What then?”

His hand was still on your shoulder, “We’ll be in the van monitoring you the whole time, speaking into the earpiece when needed. Just be yourself, and Paul won’t suspect a thing.”

“But myself is very, very rude to Paul.” 

Steve bit back a small laugh, “Well, you definitely won’t hear me complaining about that.”

Before you could fully appreciate Steve’s closeness or the fact that he was still holding your shoulder, Tony, who was also quite close to you in the cramped van, cut in, “Alright when you two are finished gazing into each other’s eyes, we just saw Paul walk into the bar on the monitor.”

You wanted to say something sarcastic, but your mind had gone blank. You opted for a simple, “Fuck off, Tony,” before you shuffled out of the van and gave Steve one last glance.

He smiled at you, but there was something still apologetic about the way his smile wasn’t quite reflected in his eyes.

Maybe Tony had a point. He was definitely gazing into your eyes the way you had been gazing into his, right? With something more than friendly affection, right? With a not quite platonic feeling, right? Right?

You pushed those dangerous thoughts from your mind as you looked both ways and crossed the Street to Ken’s Icehouse. Dammit brain, stop overthinking everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so next part will probably be up in about a week, maybe slightly less. Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Also, as some of you may know, I am currently nursing a case of the flu, so my lucidity has been tenuous at best, and my editing skills are currently subpar. If you noticed any weird typos or whatever, PLEASE feel free to tell me. You can send an anonymous ask on tumblr (see bio) if that’s easier.


	5. In Which You Become a Grandmother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to get Paul drunk and get the codes to the Smithsonian, but he get’s a little too familiar with you. Unfortunately, someone comes in and tries to act like a damn hero. Go ahead and guess who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry about Paul. He’s a creep, and he’s is mostly harmless in this chapter. But he does get a little pushy and handsy, which could be triggering to some people, so just be careful. Let’s say it’s a high PG-13 rating to be safe.

_You’re doing this for Steve; Steve is worth it; Steve didn’t even want to you do it; you’re doing it for him because you lo—LIKE him, like him; just act normal and bitchy; you got this. You like Steve._

Your mind was stuck on a loop as you entered into the familiar dim but warm yellow lighting of Ken’s Icehouse. 

“Hey Ken, I’ve got a person waiting for me. You seen him?” You called to the burly bald man as he came around the side of the bar to give you a friendly hug. The familiarity of the bar was just one of the reasons you had chosen this spot.

“He’s in the back corner.” He gestured to the far end of the room, “Looks like a prick.” And this was why you loved Ken’s Icehouse: Ken himself. The sounds of stifled snickering came through the earpiece followed by coughing sounds. You figured Sam may have choked on a rogue piece of popcorn. Served him right.

“Yeah, hence ‘person,’ and not ‘friend.’ Can you go ahead and put in an order for hotwings, make it a large basket with fries. I need to keep sober tonight. Thanks!” You then set off for the far corner, muttering quietly but just loud enough for the bug to pick it up, “Will you guys fuck off?”

A muffled _sorry_ sounded in your ear as you sidled up to the booth. 

“Y/N, you look stunning.” Paul stood and looked like he was about to go for a kiss on the cheek but thought better of it and settled for an awkward side hug before you both took your seats, “I have been waiting for this day for a while now.”

“I am well aware of the fact—” your ear was suddenly met with Tony’s voice.

_Not so hostile, this is a date, remember? Flirt._

“Yeah, got it, flirt,” you responded without thinking.

Paul gave you a questioning look, “I’m sorry?”

You could have smacked yourself, “Oh, I just meant, I know this has been a long time coming because of the way we flirt…at work. Both of us.” You tacked on what you hoped was a friendly enough smile to distract him from your slip.

 _Why would you respond to us?! Keep your cover, Y/N._ You pursed your lips to keep from responding. “Let’s get some drinks in us, shall we?”

Paul’s responding smile made you want to throw the ashtray at his face, but you resisted the urge and waved over one of Ken’s new waitresses to order drinks.

As the waitress was scribbling on her notepad, an idea hit you. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea, you know, just to start the night off with a bang, no pun intended,” you heard Tony, Sam, and Steve all groan in disgust and disapproval while Paul’s whole face lit with shock and just a bit too much eagerness, “Let’s get shots!” 

Paul’s face lit up even more, as he said to the waitress, “Well, you heard the lady! Two shots of añejo, the good stuff and dressed,” Paul held up two fingers as he spoke. You cringed internally; the man was just so extra. 

In your ear, Sam put your thoughts to voice, _Who shoots añejo tequila? That’s completely over the top._

“Shut up!” Oh hell. You did it again, only this time it was almost a yell.

Paul looked taken aback. Quick, you had to get out of it somehow, and then you remembered Mia Thermopolis.

“Shut! Up!” You exclaimed again, but this time with an impressed look, “I thought I was the only one who took shots of añejo! You are full of surprises, Paul.” You gently tapped the top of his hand with yours, hoping the small touch would sell the act. You heard an angry huff through your earpiece that didn’t sound like Tony or Sam. Surely Steve should be glad that you were thinking on your feet, right? Or was he irritated that you were flirting with Paul? Nah, that couldn’t be it. Right?

You came out of your thoughts slowly to find that Paul was telling you about his fantasy football league drafts as the drinks arrived and Tony grumbled for you to snap out of it.

 _Earth to Y/N, you’re on a date remember? Smile and look interested_.

“Are you serious?!” You snapped back, but by some divine blessing, it was the exact response Paul was looking for, and your ass was saved yet again.

“Exactly! Glad you can see why I was angry about the trade. What am I going to do without Tom Brady?” You nodded along as the waitress set down a large pitcher of beer, a basket of buffalo wings and fries, and two shots. There was no way you were drinking that shot.

Tony’s voice cut in just as he had done before, _Y/N, don’t drink that. You need to keep sober an—_

You pulled out your earpiece as discretely as you could and threw it under the table onto the dark sticky floor, crunching it under the toe of your shoe lest the sound of Tony’s outrage reach Paul’s ears over the din of the bar. Sure, Tony would be mad about you ruining a piece of his tech, but if you had to listen to any of them gripe or backseat drive one second more, you were going to scream, and that kind of outburst would not be so easy to play off.

“Let’s do our shots now!” You exclaimed with false eagerness. 

Paul looked very pleased indeed as you both licked the salt off the shot glasses and toasted. As Paul tipped his head backward to swallow the liquor down, you somewhat frantically poured yours into the full pitcher of beer, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the flavor later. You promptly sucked on your lime and fake gasped at the burn of the liquor you hadn’t tasted.

“Woo, what a way to start the evening! Paul, I want to make a real night of it. Let’s do another!” And before Paul could respond, you waived your waitress over and ordered another round while Paul poured the beers, looking pleasantly surprised at your enthusiasm.

Several minutes later, you were still only a few sips into your beer while Paul was at the bottom of his. 

“Does, this beer taste a little off to you?” He asked, eyeing his now mostly empty glass suspiciously.

You half swallowed your mouthful of waffle fries, before responding, “Nah, it’s just the buffalo sauce messing with your taste buds. Can I refill your glass?” You began pouring before he could respond. Paul looked quite content if not a little bleary eyed. 

Just then your waitress came over with the second round of añejo shots and a fresh pitcher of beer. Just as before, you dumped your shot into the beer, shaking your head pleadingly at Ken who saw you do it from the bar. 

“I love a woman who can handle her drinks!” Paul sputtered out before biting down on his lime.

“Yeah, this tequila is no match for my pitcher— liver! No match for my liver!” You gave a nervous laugh and waved to your abdomen, hoping he hadn’t caught your Freudian slip.

Paul just raised his beer to you with a smile, and you raised yours in return, clinking your glass against his before taking a very small sip.

It was in this manner that you passed the next couple hours at the bar: Paul taking several more shots while you poured yours into the pitchers of beer that you barely sipped on and ate more than your fair share of the chicken wings and fries because the more you ate, the less Paul could eat, which meant him getting drunker faster. Also, Ken’s buffalo wings were amazing. And even though Paul had commented on the flavor of the beer several times, his buzz eventually made him care less and less. Unfortunately, you were no closer to getting Paul to talk about the Smithsonian than you were when you’d first started drinking.

Paul was leaning his chin on his pint glass, his words slurring, “And that’s how I lost Tom Brady in the draft. Can you believe it?” He was back on his fantasy football draft again, and you were losing patience.

“Well, think of this way, Paul. Football is a barbaric sport with a legacy of chronic traumatic head injuries and spousal abuse as a result, and Tom Brady’s a garbage human being anyway.” You had been trying so hard to look and act interested in what he was saying, but it was just too hard. “Refill?” You gestured to his teetering glass and poured him some more tequila laced beer. This was what the evening had come to: you practically drugging a coworker for information.

“So, Paul. You’ve never told me about your family.” You had, in fact, asked him about his family and his father several times in the course of the evening, and he had almost started to tell you about his family earlier before being distracted by a football game on one of the many TVs in the bar. “What are you parents like?” Please start talking about your father, please, please, please!

“Well, what would you like to know, baby girl?” Ugh, those were two things you were not: a baby or a little girl.

“Tell me about your father. I hear he’s got powerful connections in high places.” You did your best to give him a coquettish quirk of the brow. It probably worked…maybe.

He leaned in, smiling big and bright, “Now where on earth did you hear a thing like that?”

Follow your own advice; stick as close to the truth as possible, “Ms. Potts told me. She couldn’t stop going on and on about how impressed she was.” You then added in a conspiratorial air, “Apparently, Tony has been eyeing you for a new position with the Smithsonian.” There. If that wouldn’t get him talking about the Smithsonian, then nothing would.

“I see my reputation has preceded me then,” you could smell the stale stench of beer, tequila, and buffalo sauce on his breath. Oh god, did your breath smell that bad? You’d eaten twice as many wings as he had, easily, and had gone through almost two beers at this point. Sure, you weren’t exactly looking to impress Paul, but you did have your pride. You pulled a pack of gum from your purse and popped a piece in your mouth. 

Paul reached over and took a piece for himself, winking as he continued, “My father is on the board of regents for the Smithsonian. It gives him a lot of sway in how the place is run, and that also goes for me.” He looked at you to see if you were impressed.

You nodded in feigned interest, locking eyes with him, even though you would have much rather watched the weird energy drink commercial playing on the screen behind his head. But you had to stay sharp and focused. He was finally starting to talk.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been allowed to get personal viewings of mummies and Viking gold among other artifacts. I even got to hold a Mesopotamian fertility statue once,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning back in his seat and stretching his arm over the back of the booth.

Did he really think that last part would somehow be a turn on? Best to just swallow your pride and play along. With a fake laugh, you leant forward against the table and looked into his eyes, “Hmm, I, uh, I think I’m a little jealous of that statue.” Ugh, you felt a sudden urge to brush your teeth and wash your hands.

“Well, why don’t you and I wrap it up here? Eh?” He leaned forward to meet your gaze. Nope. Nope. Nope.

“Ahw, I want to stay longer. Besides, you haven’t finished telling me about all your special privileges at the Smithsonian.” On impulse, you reached out and took his hand, coyly scratching your fingers across his palm. You’d probably done worse things in your life for even less pay off, so in the grand scheme of your life, this wasn’t _so_ bad, was it?

The simple action seemed to have placated him, for the moment at least.

“Well, basically, I can go almost anywhere in the any of the Smithsonian museums whenever I want. Course, admission is free for everyone, but not everyone gets to go behind the scenes or visit it after hours,” again, he sat forward in what he no doubt thought was an impressive stance. You were getting so close to your prize, that you didn’t even take the time to mentally chastise him as his hand moved up your arm and began to stroke your shoulder.

“Wow! How are you able to get in all the time? Does your father have a master key or something?” You hoped your eagerness came off as curiosity and wonder, rather than the fact that you were clearly exploiting him for information.

“Even better,” he let the suggestion hang, clearly baiting you to ask. His fingers were just starting to approach the side of your neck. Goosebumps rose on your flesh, but they were the result of disgust rather than pleasure.

“What do you mean?” You tried to subtly move his hand away with yours feigning wanting to hold it, but he simply took that hand with his other and resumed what he’d been doing. 

“I’ve got the electronic mastercode to all the Smithsonian security systems,” he gave you an impressive look as you muttered in astonishment, “They change it weekly, but father likes to keep me in the loop should he ever become incapacitated, in which case he would want me to step in in his place.” His fingers were now fiddling with the strap of your dress right near your collarbone. How repulsive.

Ok, time to play dumb. Men like Paul, and men not like Paul for that matter, love it when they get the chance to educate women. “Wow, why would they change it weekly?”

“Well, it’s a highly protected number, so a lot of safeguards are in place to protect it, but,” he paused for effect, “I am able to get around those safeguards,” he again looked quite proud of himself. His shoed foot began to stroke the inside of your calf from under the table. Gross. You knew how infrequently Ken had the floors under the booths mopped: very, very infrequently.

You shifted your leg away and tucked it under the ledge of your bench. “That’s pretty impressive. How on earth do you keep up with all that?” If you were to figure out where he kept the codes, say his personal email on his cell, you wouldn’t need to push your luck by asking what the codes were. Or at least that was your hope.

This time, he pulled away. Shit! You must have pushed your questioning too far. You desperately began thinking of ways to get out of this and cursed yourself for having stomped on your earpiece. Then to your surprise, Paul reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He slapped down a wad of twenties. 

“There that should cover the tab and then some. Now, c’mon, let’s head back to my place, and we can discuss this,” he paused to eye you, “in more detail.”

“Aw, why do you want to leave so fast? I’m having such a wonderful time here with you, Paul,” you practically purred his name, hoping that your gratuitous lavishing would talk him down.

He stood and walked to your side of the booth, reaching for your hands, which you reluctantly extended. You did not, however, allow him to pull you up as he slurred, “Now, why would you want to stay here when we could get go back to mine and get some privacy? C’mon, let’s go.”

You were grasping at straws now. You still had no passcode, and now Paul was adamantly trying to leave and woo you to his bed. Ugh, the thought made your skin crawl. “But we still have beer left. We wouldn’t want it to go to waste. You can finish your story here over the beer,” you winced at the involuntary rhyme, “and then we can get more comfortable after.”

But Paul was having none of it. Luckily, he was still smiling like a jackass, so you were certain he wasn’t suspicious of you, yet at any rate. “Nah, the beer tastes funny. I think their taps are dirty. I’ve got a wine collection anyway, so let’s go.” He was now pulling you to your feet as you desperately tried to stay in place while not making a scene. 

It’s not that you were afraid of him taking advantage of you. You were in control of the situation, he was drunk, you were sober, and you had Sam and Tony—and technically Steve—as back up should things get messy. But you knew that if things got messy, you’d never get the passcode. So, you finally allowed yourself to be pulled upright, hoping that you could get the info from him on the cab ride to his place before making your escape.

But fate, it would seem, had other plans.

You were still stalling by claiming that the two of you should at least properly close the tab rather than just throwing down bills while Paul was still raring to go, not wanting to wait on the waitress. And seemingly out of nowhere—he was quite small, after all—Steve came barging up to the pair of you bickering and tapped Paul on the shoulder with several fingers with all his might.

“Hey, how about you show some respect to the lady here? If she says she doesn’t wanna leave then she doesn’t wanna leave.” He was red in the face and almost a foot shorter than Paul. Using Paul’s stunned silence to his advantage, Steve turned to you and asked, “Are you okay, Y/N?” You too were stunned into silence, but Paul found his voice before you could.

“What the hell is this? Y/N, who is this guy?” Paul demanded, beginning to show the initial signs of anger under his confusion.

You had to think on your feet, but your feet were sluggish at the moment. You tried to laugh it off, “Haha, oh, um, this is, uh, this is my, grandson.” Fuck. What was that? Two pairs of eyebrows shot upward. “Uh, yep, heh, my grandson. He was adopted. His name is Steee—ewiee. His name is Stewie.” Well this night was turning into a right cock up in the blink of an eye.

“Your grandson? Y/N, what is going on?” Paul put his hands on his hips. You put your hand on Steve’s shoulder, probably gripping it with a little too much strength.

You laughed nervously, “I mean, he’s not literally my grandson; that would be absurd. He’s like a grandson to me though,” your grip was vicelike on Steve, who was now shifting under your hand. “He’s probably just out of baseball practice. He’s in the little leagues, hmm?” You looked at Steve questioningly, the way an adult might when coaxing a child to speak.

Steve stuttered slightly, “Yep, little leagues.”

Paul squinted his eyes, “It’s not even baseball season. Y/N?” Clearly the alcohol and the strangeness of the situation were taking their toll on his capacity for coherent and reasonable thought.

“He sometimes comes and finds me here after practice, but he can be a little protective at times, isn’t that right, Stewie?” You looked at Steve patronizingly, “Sometimes he can accidentally ruin a perfect moment, but he means well.” 

Steve cocked a brow in return. Shit. You should not have challenged the sass master, “Well, grandma, then perhaps it’s time to go? I think you’ve had enough to drink.” His voice was laced with sugary sweet falseness.

But Paul was not having it, “Aw, c’mon, you’re not really going to leave now, are you?”

You took half a breath to consider your options, thoughts flying through your head at lightning speed. If you stayed, you would have to continue to lie and bullshit your way through questions about Steve, make that Stewie. If you left, you could avoid those questions, but you would also have zero chance of getting the passcodes or the location where Paul stored them. But already this diversion had been so extreme that there was little chance of rerouting the conversation back to where you’d been anyway even if you did stay. But little chance was better odds than zero chance. But…

Steve finally squirmed out of your grasp and took your arm, “Please, Y/N? I need you to walk me to my friend, Sam’s, house. He’s expecting me now.” He gave you a pointed look that said ‘don’t argue.’ 

You let out a defeated sigh. You really couldn’t argue at this point, so you turned to Paul, “Well, I’ve been summoned, and I can’t say no to that.” 

If you felt defeated by the unexpected situation, Paul looked completely deflated. If he hadn’t always been such a creep and so deaf to the word ‘no,’ especially tonight, you might have actually felt sorry for him. You almost did.

“Y/N,” his words were still slurred, “Can’t we, can’t we…” He trailed off realizing that the night was now too far gone for any hope of resurrecting it.

Against your better judgement, you reached out and patted him on the shoulder gently, “Sorry, Paul, but I really do need to go.” Taking out the cash that Tony had given you to cover the date, you put all of it on the table—Ken could use the tips anyhow—and picked up Paul’s bills and tucked them into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Have a good night, and I’ll see at work.”

Just as you were turning, you heard Paul ask, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere, kid? You look familiar.”

Not letting Steve say a word, lest his familiar voice give him away, you blurted out, “Yeah, he gets that a lot. Some say he looks a bit like the Human Torch from _Fantastic Four_ , but I don’t see it,” you turned away and looked at Steve, “Come on.” Gesturing for you both to leave, calling to Paul over your shoulder, “Sorry again, Paul. Take care.”

You grabbed Steve by his forearm and began to drag him through the bar, waving a hasty goodbye to Ken before stepping out into the cold night air. You knew you’d have to explain all of this to him soon.

The blast of cold night air that stung your face might have ordinarily sent you into instant shivers, but in the absence of Paul and the immediate need to keep your wits, your anger was beginning to blossom, and when you got mad, your whole body heated up. 

Steve’s voice cut in, “They’re down the street, two blocks, around the corner. They had to get out of the loading zone.”

You dragged him silently beside you. You were never one who was easy to anger. Easy to irritate, absolutely. Easily annoyed and a frequent complainer, also yes. But you prided yourself on your overwhelming apathy, never caring enough about most little things to be excited to anger. But when you did get angry, on those rare occasions, it was volatile, simmering, and not a part of yourself you were ever very proud of.

When Steve tried to pull himself free from your grasp, you lost it, and luckily the street was empty of onlookers to your ire.

“Steve! What. The. Fuck?!” You enunciated each word deliberately as you practically yelled. “What the hell were you thinking? You ruined it! I had it! I was so close, and you fucking ruined it! Why couldn’t you just leave your hero hat off for one fucking minute?”

In the silence that followed, Steve’s face, which had previously been tensed into an ashamed and apologetic grimace, suddenly went blank save for a small crease between his brows. Oh shit, oh shit. Too far, Y/N, too far. 

Steve wouldn’t meet your gaze, his eyes searching for some unknown point on the brick wall behind you. Your tensed posture slumped as your anger was sucked right out and replaced by a sudden and overwhelming wave of guilt. 

You sighed, “Shit, Steve, I—”

“It’s okay, Y/N. I get it.” His gaze moved to his feet. “I don’t know what to say. I’m just, I’m sorry.” The biting wind that couldn’t touch you before when your face was hot and angry, now cut into your skin and made you shiver.

You wanted to apologize. You were mad that he sabotaged the evening, but you never should have yelled at him like that. You never should have taken so low a blow as to call his impetuous protectiveness his ‘hero hat.’ You opened your mouth to say something, anything but were denied the chance.

Steve just put a hand to his ear and said, “Tony’s calling us back. Said we can yell and apologize later.” He turned and hurriedly walked down the street leaving you to jog to keep pace.

When you both got to the car, you were met by a furious looking Tony. No doubt both of you were going to get it. You for crushing the earpiece and doing your own thing outside their control, and Steve for bungling it all at the end of the night.

Sam popped his head out, “Y/N, we tried to stop him, but you know how he is.” 

You held up your hand, not wanting Sam’s disapproval to compound Steve’s hurt and your own guilt at causing that hurt. 

Tony, however, was less than sympathetic, not that you could blame him. 

“Both of you. Inside. Now.”

You may not have actually been a grandmother, but damn if you didn’t wish you had one by your side right now to comfort and protect you from the tongue lashing you were about to receive.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, from here on out there will be more angst. There will also be fluffy reprieves, but but also angst. Also, I couldn’t help but break the 4th wall ever so slightly with that Fantastic Four reference. Sorry not sorry.


	6. In Which You Have a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You recover from Saturday night and the hellish Monday that follows with the help of an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is actually almost a normal length! Go me!

You swirled the last few sips of Fleurie in the bottom of your globe shaped glass, watching how the tears of wine clung to sides before seeping back into the pool below. You swirled the wine again and took a strange satisfaction in seeing the tears get washed to higher planes before they began to weep down again. It was almost hypnotic to watch the gentle undulations of the ruby liquid as it lapped against the sides of the glass. Almost.

You could vaguely discern voices and sounds coming from your TV just as you could vaguely make out the sounds of Douglass chasing fairies around your apartment. But your focus was locked on the wine. If you could just keep your senses fixated on this numbing vision, then you could continue to disregard the things around you as white noise, things to be blocked out and ignored. And if you could ignore the rabble rousing on the news and the sounds of Douglass’s frantic footfalls, then maybe, just maybe, you could ignore all the things outside your immediate vicinity: for instance, the hellish day you were currently attempting to drown in expensive wine.

Part of you felt guilty for indulging in what was a relatively costly bottle, and the other part of you was too hurt, upset, tired, and frustrated to care much. You continued to stare into the swirling wine.

Try as you might though, one cannot always control the mind, and your mind was no different. You didn’t want to think about Saturday night again or about the worst Monday you’d ever had, but here you were, starting to ruminate, again.  


Tony had immediately ripped into Steve for barging out into the night to ‘rescue’ you from Paul’s advances, stating that you had never been in any danger, that any hope of getting the codes from him was lost, that he could have been recognized by anyone, no less Paul himself—and he almost was—and that he also could have had his ass handed to him by Paul if a fight had ensued.

By the time he ran out of momentum with Steve, the four of you had already arrived at the tower and were riding the elevator up to the residential floors. Then it was your turn. You had dug in your heels at every turn, from the phone call to the bar you chose to the fact that you had destroyed a rather expensive piece of tech and gone well off script by ordering shots and risking your cover by carelessly tossing them in with the beer. On top of that, you had not handled the situation with the same professionalism that he had come to admire in you over the last couple of years. His words stung, not because they had been spoken in anger, but because you knew he was right and justified in saying such things. You had been petulant and recalcitrant every step of the way.

In spite of that and the fact that you now had an audience of the remaining team members, you fought right back as was in your nature. The anger that you had stoppered for Steve’s sake needed a new outlet, so you let it out at Tony, reminding him that you were no spy, that you’d had no idea what you were doing, that his and Sam’s incessant talking your ear had almost given you away several times, that you had been asked to sell out your gender for the sake of intel and how utterly dirty that made you feel.

You had finally stormed into the elevator without another word and caught a cab home. Sunday was spent on your couch moping, knowing you’d regret not getting your weekly shopping done and knowing that you shouldn’t be ignoring your work email. Nevertheless, you stayed in your pajamas all day, eating junk food on your couch and binging Netflix, as though ignoring your problems might make them go away.

And if you had thought that Monday would somehow bring a fresh start, you were sorely mistaken.

You’d spent most of the morning on the phone with Joyce from the Smithsonian’s PR department, trying to explain why Captain America would not be able to speak on Sunday at the dedication. In addition, she had wanted a good explanation as to why she had had to find out about this development through the press release that had gone out while you had been sulking on your couch the previous day rather than from a personal call. You, of course had no good explanation for this, so you had to eat crow and take the brunt of the blame, which you felt was more than justified.

Whether or not you, Tony, or anyone else were happy about it at the moment, you were the Avengers’ only outside ally on what was now becoming known at the ‘Steve Situation.’ You had to meet with them up on their floor in the common area and go over other options for how to handle everything in light of Saturday’s debacle.  


The meeting had been tense and short, mostly due to the residual anger you and Tony were still nursing. Steve was to remain under house arrest for all intents and purposes as he could not risk being spotted again. Bruce and Dr. Cho would continue working on their anti- anti-serum. Tony, Vision, and Natasha would look for any potential weaknesses in the Smithsonian’s various security systems. Wanda would be called upon to enchant the guards if necessary to get access to the vita radiation pod. Sam, Clint, and Rhodey were heading back down to Argentina to see about finding the scientists working for Castillo, the arms dealer responsible for this whole mess, in the hopes that they might talk if captured.  


And you. You were back to pretty much the same grind you’d been doing for years. Several smaller projects you had been working on would be transferred to some of the people below you while you focused your efforts on drafting press releases for the two possible eventualities: Captain America is no more or Captain America recovers from his injuries. Some of the finer details would no doubt need be altered and tailored once the time arrived or didn’t arrive, but for now, you could at least get the outlines for the documents created for a speedier release.

Once the meeting ended, you tried to catch Steve alone to talk and apologize, after all, he was usually such a dawdler, but he raced away from the table and toward his personal quarters before you even had the chance to call his name.

The remainder of your afternoon was passed staring at your computer unproductively and avoiding the awkward silences and cold greetings with Paul in the break room. You never thought you’d actually miss his incessant and inappropriate pestering, but here you were, desperate for some sense of the former normalcy that had evaporated in the last three days.

By the time you made it through the door of your apartment, you were at a breaking point. The final straw fell when you opened your fridge and realized that you really should have gotten up the day before and gone shopping and done some cooking as there was nothing but a few scraps of side dishes from the week before and your multitude of condiment bottles.

With a few frustrated tears streaming down your face, you dialed one of your favorite takeout places and ordered enough food for three people before wiping your eyes of the tears and walking back to the street below to go pick up your food a couple blocks away.

The short walk in the brisk air had brought some temporary relief, but by the time you made it back inside your door, you were back to where you’d started: on the verge of tears and well past trying to suck it up.

On top of that, the little personal revelations you’d been having about your relationship with Steve since the whole ‘situation’ had begun, the ones you’d thus far been able to ignore or drown out with louder more pressing thoughts, like the one where you almost admitted to yourself that you might possibly love Steve, those ones? Yeah, they were bulldozing your heart and mind with unwanted feelings and doubts.

So here you were, several hours later, more than half a bottle of wine deep and feeling utterly despondent. Alcohol has a way of doing that to a person. It promises forgetfulness and sweet relief to a fevered mind, but more often than not, it magnifies those same self-doubts, insecurities, and anxieties you were trying to outrun in the first place, especially when consumed in solitude and in the dark of an empty room.  


A sudden knock at your apartment door brought you out of your ruminative stupor in a rush of rapid heartbeats. You looked at the clock. It was past 8:00. Who on earth could be knocking right now? Some stately raven of the saintly days of yore? You almost giggled at the ridiculous thought. On a more realistic note, had you accidentally stiffed the restaurant on a tip in your absent mindedness and they had tracked you down to tell you all about it? Nah, that was stupid; you always remembered to tip. You got up on wobbly legs, wobbly both from sitting on them for too long on the couch and from the Fleurie. You did a cursory glance at your reflection in the small decorative mirror that hung on your wall. You looked decent enough for whoever was disturbing your solitary night.  


As you peered through the peephole, your heart gave another small series of shudders. It was Steve. Or at least you were pretty certain that it was Steve underneath the low brimmed cap, thick coat, scarves, and sunglasses despite it being night.  


You opened the door slowly, “Hey, Steve.” You weren’t sure what else to say so you just held the door open enough for him to squeeze in but not wide enough for Douglass to get out.

“Thanks.” He shuffled in and began taking off his many concealing layers.

For lack of anything better to say, you asked, “So, not trying to sound unwelcoming, but, uhm, how do you know where I live?”

He looked at you sheepishly, “Tony…”

“Ah, right.” You rocked on your heels, but noticing that Steve was still holding onto his mountain of garments, you lurched forward and took them from him, laying them gently on your entry table.

“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be on house arrest?” You asked as you retrieved your wine glass from your coffee table.

He looked up innocently, “Well, by Tony, what I meant was Friday. No one knows I’m here.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the peeling linoleum of your floor.

You laughed softly through your nose. Of course he would sneak out like a rebellious teenager.

“Drink?” You asked, again, not knowing what else to say or do. You hadn’t exactly been expecting visitors, let alone Steve of all people to come knocking at your door.

“Uh, sure.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he awkwardly sat down at your kitchen table while your poured him a glass from the already depleted bottle. Steve had the decency not to mention that observation.

Then, as though his sole mission in life were to forever save you from awkward situations with houseguests, Douglass sauntered in and right up to Steve’s leg where he began rubbing his cheek and whole body.

Steve looked down in surprise, “Oh. You must be Douglass. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he cooed playfully, beginning to scoop Douglass up into his lap.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. He hates being held by strange—” You stopped yourself when it became evident that Douglass was actually quite content in Steve’s embrace. Stranger things. And you had to admit that underneath your crushing anxieties and the heaviness of the wine, you were impressed that Steve had so quickly and effortlessly been able to gain Douglass’s trust.

Steve was still murmuring softly to Douglass as he reached up and took a sip of the wine.

“Mmm,” he said, “nice wine, Y/N. I hope you didn’t open it special for me.” There was a ghost of smirk on his face when he said this, and you felt your chest unclench ever so slightly at his gentle teasing.

“Well, you how I be. The guest gets the best,” you teased back before somberly adding, “Nah, I was just, well, it was a hell of a day.”

Steve’s face fell slightly, and he looked down at Douglass under the pretense of scratching his chin. “I suppose I’m mostly to blame for that. I ju—”

“Steve. Please.” You interrupted him before he could start to apologize, “While I won’t pretend to be a mind reader, if I could guess, I’d say you came here to apologize for Saturday?” He nodded in agreement, and you looked away. You knew you wouldn’t be able to get it all out if you were looking at him. “You are a pretty big reason why today has sucked but not in the way you think.” He looked at you searchingly as you continued, “I was angry Saturday, and real, I mean actual ‘argh’ anger, is not something I really feel all that often, and when I do, I tend to lash out. And I lashed out at you.”

You paused and took a deep breath, “Don’t get me wrong, Steve. I am mad at you because you really screwed the pooch, but,” you paused, realizing you’d derailed, “I’m sorry. I’ve said some pretty awful things to people in my life before, but I think I outdid myself there. I never should have criticized you for wanting to help, as if that could somehow be a bad trait to have.” You hesitated, looking for the right thing to say, “I wanted to apologize on the spot, but you left before I got the chance, and then again today after the meeting…So there. I’m sorry. It’s not a phrase I say often and mean it, so count yourself lucky that you’re hearing it twice.”

You took a deep breath and small sip of wine at the completion of what had become a lengthy speech. You finally looked back to his face to find that he was smiling slightly. What an odd reaction to an apology.

Steve gave Douglass a few thoughtful scratches before he spoke, “Y/N, you didn’t need to apologize because—”

“But I—”

“Because,” he raised his voice over yours, “I know you didn’t mean any of it. You’re a hard one to read sometimes, but today you had remorse written all over your face.” He ducked his head slightly to catch your averted gaze, “And for what it’s worth, I probably would have reacted the same way. I fucked up—”

“Watch your mouth!” It was your knee jerk response whenever he cussed, which was far more often than most would assume.

He rolled his eyes and smiled as he continued, “You almost had the intel, but Paul was being so forward and inappropriate with you. And I knew that you would only be able to refuse so much before you had to give away the game, so I felt if I intervened as a stranger and told him to back off, he might. I’m sorry. It was stupid and reckless and has put us all back to square one.”

His apology sounded rehearsed but genuine. How could you continue being mad at him? Hint: you couldn’t. You just nodded reassuringly at him and reached over to give Douglass a pet, carefully avoiding brushing fingers with Steve.

A few moments of comfortable quiet passed while Douglass continued to receive affection and you both sipped on your wine. Then an idea struck you.

“I’ll probably regret this when I wake up and realize I have a gym day tomorrow, but I’ve got all the _Jurassic Park_ movies. Wanna watch the first one?” You weren’t holding your breath on him saying yes, but it was worth asking all the same. Steve was, after all, sitting in your kitchen, holding your cat, and drinking wine. Inviting him to stay for a movie didn’t seem all that outrageous in that context.

Steve just gave one of his lopsided smiles and said, “You know, I think that’s a perfect idea.”

Your heart swelled and those nagging thoughts, you know the ones, threatened again to bubble to the surface. You distracted yourself instead, “I’ll go pop in the disc. Help yourself to leftover takeout in the fridge, and the bathroom is down the hall on the right.”

Within minutes, he and you were settled on the couch with Douglass nestled in between the two of you—cockblocker—as anti-piracy warning after anti-piracy warning slowly rolled by.

The movie, as always was as exciting as it was the first time you’d seen it, but this time with the added thrill of watching Steve watch the movie. He and you had really only ever hung out  and talked after meetings, in your office, or over drinks at Tony’s parties and happy hours. This, him sitting in your living room watching a movie with you and your cat, was different. And in those muted moments and stolen glances, you felt yourself becoming more comfortable with the idea that you had feelings for Steve, clearly always had, and apparently always would. Sure, he wasn’t the muscled man you use to ogle at the office, but you found yourself caring less and less about that.

His physical attractiveness had ironically blinded you to the man underneath: smartass, soft, selfless, and sweet. You’d been so preoccupied with examining the veins in his hands or the way his shirts tugged at the seams to realize that you were falling for more than just his looks. You were falling for the man.

And whereas before these thoughts had scared you—such a depth of emotion was something your life experiences had left you ill equipped to know what to do with—now with him sitting so close, so naturally in your apartment as though he did this sort of thing all the time, you found that those fears were beginning to abate. Whereas before you were sure that any feelings you might have would go unreciprocated, you now found yourself giving into the hope that you did, in fact, have a chance with him, that if not now, then someday, he might return your feelings. And this newfound knowledge and peace were what finally allowed you and enabled you to irrevocably whisper, in the furthest, darkest, quietest corner of your mind: _I think I’m in love with Steve._

The swelling of the orchestra in the end music, woke you out of your thoughts just in time to look away from Steve as he turned and began to stretch in his seat. You didn’t dare speak and shatter the moment, so you just continued to stare at the screen, pretending to read the credits with feigned mild interest, stretching a little for good measure.

The one thing on your mind at this point was ‘what now?’

You finally looked over at Steve, who looked back up at you. One of you had to speak and it might as well have been you. But before you could get the chance, he took the lead.

“You said the bathroom was on the right?” He asked, pointing toward the short hallway to your bedroom and bathroom.

“Uh, yeah, to the right,” you responded, simultaneously relieved at the tension breaking and disappointed that this was likely a signal that he’d be leaving soon. That said, you had spent the whole evening with him, so you’d count it as a net win all the same.

When he re-emerged, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other reached for the ceiling in a long stretch, you were in the kitchen pouring some kibble out for Douglass.

“So, what did you think of the movie?” You asked looking up.

“It was amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The dinosaurs were so life-like.” He furrowed his brows slightly as he continued, “But I have to say, that Mr. Arnold character really reminded me of Nick Fury, y’know?”

You didn’t know, “Well, I never got to meet the man before he ‘died’,” you made air quotes with your fingers, “and I haven’t met him since. Is he really good with computers or something?”

Steve looked concentrated, “No, it’s just something about their demeanor that’s similar. Oh well.”

He shook off the feeling and looked up at you as you were busy rinsing out the wine glasses. Had your back not been turned, you might have seen the heartfelt but also regretful look that Steve gave you and then himself. You might have seen the way the yearning in his heart bled through his façade and threatened to topple his weakened knees. But your back was turned and you couldn’t see any of it.

When you did turn around, wiping your hands on the kitchen towel, which you then slung over the back of a chair, he felt he might have overstayed his welcome and moved to the door to begin gathering his numerous layers.

You took his cue and headed over, helping him detangle his scarf from the zipper of his coat while you were at it.

“There,” you said as he tugged the ball cap over his head, “No one will ever recognize you because nothing screams inconspicuous like wearing sunglasses and a ball cap at night.”

Steve huffed and you could tell he was rolling his eyes behind the tinted lenses, “Very funny, but I’d rather look awkward than be seen and recognized like this.” He swept his hand in front of his body.

You winced a little inside at his low self-appraisal, “Well, there are worse things in the world; I’m sure.”

“That’s very polite of you to say,” he sounded far from convinced.

You just let out a sigh, “Well, we’re good, right?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. That’s good. I’m glad we’re, all, good.” Oh shit, brain, think of something cool or nice to say.

You don’t know what came over you in the next moment. You were not a particularly touchy person, but you reached out, hesitantly at first, arms extended and gave Steve a hug. He in turn wrapped his arms around you and gave a you squeeze, which left you feeling breathless despite his diminished strength.

As you pulled back, you finally settled on something sensible to say, “Thanks for stopping by, Steve. It means a lot.”

“Of course, Y/N. Couldn’t let you stay mad at me much longer; it was killing me.” He smiled ruefully.

You nodded in agreement before adding, “Just make sure you call ahead in the future. It is New York after all, and next time I might answer the door with pepper spray.”

He chuckled as he walked out the door, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll keep that in mind. For next time.”

A satisfied sigh escaped your lips as the door clicked behind you. Maybe today wasn’t such a bad day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the Jurassic Park joke. I cannot help but be meta.


	7. In Which You Make Like Icarus and Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite your chronic cynicism, you can’t help but ride the high you got from Steve’s late-night visit. And when a conversation with Natasha goes in an unexpected direction, you rise even higher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many good feelings to come, but heed the title.

If Monday had made you feel heavy and low, then Monday night had been the tonic to cure you. When you awoke early Tuesday morning for your workout in the company gym, you were practically effervescent. In all your life, you’d never felt so light and almost giddy. You nearly sang as you cleaned out Douglass’s litter box, despite the fact that you were scooping out soiled litter on your knees.

You were basking in the glow of your newly realized feelings for Steve, and the feeling was intoxicating. Not even the possibility that Steve might not reciprocate your feelings could touch you right now. You were floating too high above those concerns to give them much attention at the moment.

Besides, you argued with your pessimistic side, Steve had gone out of his way to sneak out of the tower, like some rebellious teenager, just to come see you. And on top of that he’d watched a movie with you and very strongly alluded to a future repeat of the evening. There had to be something to it.

Normally in your dating life, you’d been guarded, never letting anyone get too close. Dating and the process of getting to know strangers for the sake of partnership had always just seemed too forced, too rehearsed, too old. But this with Steve—whatever _this_ was—was different. You were friends; you knew each other already. And unless you were completely misreading things, you thought there might be a sliver of a hope that he would feel the same way for you.

That morning your jog seemed easier, almost enjoyable. When you had to cowtow to Joyce from the Smithsonian again about the changes to the dedication program in Steve’s absence, you were delighted to accommodate her and happy to take the blame for the whole debacle. Even ducking Paul in the kitchen during lunch was somehow less of a drag. Your whole day was tinted with the rosy glow of your newly realized feelings. And for a chronically cynical and pessimistic person, this was a welcome change of pace.

Wednesday too passed in a similar fashion. Not even another angry call from Joyce and her supervisor could kill the high you were riding on. You were untouchable.

The icing on the cake came when Steve sent you a text message that evening.

> **Steeeve:** Hey, I know you’re probably already on your way home.  
>  But I’m going stir crazy locked in the residences.  
>  Join me for lunch tomorrow? My treat.

You had to physically restrain yourself from releasing what would have been a high pitched squeal of delight on your train ride home. You quickly typed out your response.

> **You:** I only get 40 minutes, but I’d love to.  
>  My lunch starts at 12:30, so I’ll come up then.

Steve was quick to text back.

> **Steeeve:** Great. Any place you want to order from?

Keep your cool, Y/N.

> **You:** I’ll eat just about anything. Surprise me.
> 
> **Steeeve:** I’ll try my best then. Can’t wait!

You closed your phone with a dizzy smile. And that same rosy glow followed you all the way home the rest of the night.

The only dip in your mood came when, as you lay in your bed, you realized that in the rush of Steve’s situation, you had neglected to buy a new dress for the party on Friday. You would have to go shopping and purchase a dress tomorrow, come hell or high water. Your mood dipped again slightly when you realized that Steve would not be able to attend said party for obvious reasons. Oh well, you could always duck out and go see him at some point. High restored.

* * *

Thursday morning ticked by one slow second at a time. At 11:09, you got a text from Tony saying that Sam, Rhodey, and Clint were returning from Argentina with one of the scientists they had managed to apprehend for questioning and that they would arrive within an hour. That small piece of good news, good for Steve’s sake anyway, was enough to get you through that final hour before your lunch break.

12:13. You were so close to your lunch with Steve. Despite all your personal revelations, you couldn’t bring yourself to call it a lunch _date_ even in your mind. There was still a nagging possibility in the back of your mind that Steve just saw you as a friend. Best to not build yourself up too much, just in case.

12:19. You were prematurely beginning to save your documents and close your email, wanting to swing by the bathroom before heading up to the residential floors, when your phone buzzed. It was a message from Steve. With equal parts anticipation and apprehension, you picked up your phone.

> **Steeeve:** Y/N. I’m really sorry.

Your stomach sank.

> I can’t make lunch after all. Tony needs me to be there for Sam, Rhodey, and Clint’s arrival.  
>  I’m sending your lunch down to your office though so you won’t have to order out last minute.  
>  Sorry again. Maybe I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m sure Tony’s gonna call a meeting.

The bubble that had been acting as a force field against negativity since Monday night deflated slightly as disappointment seeped through your veins. You couldn’t blame him; the Steve Situation was far more important than getting lunch together, but even that rationale didn’t help it sting any less.

> **You:** Hey, it’s ok. We’ll get a raincheck, how’s that?  
>  Crossing my fingers for good news, and hope to see you later.

Not ten seconds had passed before he responded.

> **Steeeve:** Raincheck it is. Hope you like Thai!

Right as you put your phone down, there was a knock on your office door, and you figured it was your food. You pulled out some cash for a tip, and savored the sweet and spicy smell of the coconut curry that now wafted throughout your office. You didn’t know how Steve managed it, but the spice level was just the way you liked it.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, you finally got the text from Tony to come up and join the team for a meeting.

You went ahead and packed up your office and shut down your electronics, sensing that this meeting would go all the way up to five o’clock, if not beyond then.

When you finally stepped up the last step into the common area and kitchen, which was now becoming all too familiar to you, the team, save for Bruce and Dr. Cho, were all seated around the large kitchen table, some talking in low, tense voices while others had their somber faces buried in laptop and tablet screens. Steve, however, was staring distractedly off into space, and something about his faraway look seemed lost, almost sad. The scene before you did not bode well.

However, you decided to give things the benefit of the doubt and greeted the room with a joking tone, “Who died? You all look positively miserable!” Your forced smile fell as soon as they looked up at you. “Okay, seriously?”

Sam spoke up, a heavy look on his face, “Dr. Aguirre, that’s who.”

You gave a confused shake of your head and shrugged your shoulders slightly. You had no idea who that was.

Tony clarified, “Aguirre was one of the researchers working for Castillo, the one Sam, Rhodey, and Clint apprehended.” Realization dawned on you as new questions of ‘when’ and ‘how’ flooded your mind, and the questions must have been evident on your face as Tony continued, “He was found dead in his holding cell right after I texted you. It’s not yet clear if it was a suicide or foul play, but we’ve got crime scene techs combing the whole cell block for evidence in case it’s the latter.”

You blindly reached for a chair as you slumped down, your mind spinning with speculations and questions. You finally landed on the one that seemed most pressing, “Were any of you able to get an information out of him or…” You trailed off.

Clint spoke up, addressing the whole room as the others seemed to be as ignorant of this as you, “Sam and I were able to get some information from him regarding the anti-serum on the quinjet and again during our initial interrogations. We gave the tapes to Banner and Cho, who said the information would be helpful but that it would not enough for them to make any significant progress, not yet anyway.”

“Do you have any idea what they meant by that?” Bucky asked, huffing impatiently.

“Not really,” Sam muttered, disappointment lacing every syllable, “You know how the two of them can get. Bruce and Helen started talking about the serum in a language that I’m not sure was English. They did look hopeful. I think? For what that’s worth.”

No one spoke for a few long moments, each lost in their thoughts.

Finally, Steve spoke, “So what does that mean for me?” He was fiddling with his fingertips as he continued, “How long do we keep up this charade that I’m injured? How long till we go public and let the world know that Captain America can’t even bench an empty barbell let alone fight international criminals and aliens from outerspace?” His eyes flickered toward yours as he spoke and his cheeks took on a pink dusting.

Several of the others looked to you; you were the publicist, after all.

You cleared your throat softly before speaking, “Well, I wouldn’t be able to offer any advice regarding when we release that kind of information before speaking with Banner and Cho first. See where they are in the process and see if they have any projections regarding their anti- anti-serum.” You shrugged your shoulders and grimaced in apology, “Sorry I can’t be more helpful at the moment. I just don’t know enough about what’s going on in the lab to reach any kind of decision regarding information release.”

You added after a moment’s pause, “But, uh, I can catch you up on what I’ve been working on?” You voice turned up at the end, gauging if they even wanted to hear about your PR business. Seeing Tony nod his head in assent, you continued, “Obviously, Steve will have to refrain from attending the party tomorrow night. That said, I think it’s best that everyone else go and put on their best happy faces. I think everyone could use a break, and even though Steve is supposedly severely injured, it would be best to carry on as usual.”

You paused a moment to catch your breath, “I doubt we’ll be able to get Banner or Cho out of the labs though. And regarding Sunday’s dedication at the Smithsonian, it’s all taken care of. It took a lot of groveling, but Joyce couldn’t argue with the facts I was presenting to her, that is to say that Steve was in ICU here in the tower’s medical wing. So as long as we all act normal, we’re covered through this weekend at least. But pending an update from the lab, we do need to take the time to make some difficult decisions regarding the long term.”

Realizing that you’d been talking a lot, you cut yourself off and looked around the room for feedback. This wasn’t, after all, your call to make even if your opinions and expertise were valuable to the team.

Tony took the lead saying, “Well, then it sounds like we need to just keep up with what we’ve been doing since this all started last week. We’ll keep digging for answers, and you,” he pointed at you, “keep us covered in the press for now.”

It wasn’t an ideal plan—hell, it was hardly a plan at all—but it was a sufficient stopgap until Banner and Cho could better determine if a cure were possible. There was a noncommittal agreement among the team to continue keeping the cover.

There was another lull in the room that was abruptly interrupted by Tony’s phone chirping with a new message. He picked it up and said, “Speak of the devil. I’ve got a message from Bruce now.” He then read the message aloud, “The information from Dr. Aguirre has been invaluable but also insufficient. Helen and I will continue to see where this leads us, but we can’t make any promises for the immediate future. Carry on as before.”

Natasha voiced what everyone was thinking, “Well that was sufficiently vague. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, huh?”

Another wave of subdued head nods ran through the room before the conversation turned into a debriefing of Sam, Rhodey, and Clint’s mission. This wasn’t exactly a topic that would benefit from your input, so kept quiet and tried to at least remain mentally engaged.

After what felt like almost an hour, you glanced down at your wristwatch and saw that it was nearly five o’clock. Despite the fact that you felt obligated to stay, you were itching to leave as soon as possible to go pick out a dress for the party before it got too late. Without even noticing it, you began to drum your fingers on the table and continued to steal glances down at your watch. And apparently, this agitation, subtle as it was, was enough to catch Tony’s attention.

“Y/N, you look a bit fidgety. Bathroom’s right over there.” He pointed to a door across the common area.

You rolled your eyes slightly, “It’s not that. I just kind of need to get going soon.” Seeing Tony’s brows raise slightly, “It’s not that I wouldn’t normally mind staying past 5:00, but I need to go get a dress for tomorrow since, as you’ve told me, it’s black tie. I guess in all the hullabaloo, I forgot to go shopping over the weekend.” You trailed off lamely, seeing Tony’s smirk. You weren’t sure if that were a good sign or a bad sign, seeing as how neither of you had yet apologized about Saturday’s shouting match.

He chuckled slightly, “Well, I’m glad you’re finally taking my parties seriously.” You rolled your eyes fully at that and heard a few low groans from the others. “Go on home, we’re just spinning our wheels here at this point. I’m all anticipation to see what you pick out for tomorrow.”

As you stood to begin gathering your things, Natasha stood too, “I’m coming with you. Plus, I can drive, so you won’t have to carry home a garment bag on the subway.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” you started to say with a polite wave of your hand, but Natasha cut in.

“No, I really do. I’ve seen your closet, and unless tomorrow’s party is Mad Men themed, specifically Peggy’s season one wardrobe, you’re going to need a second opinion.”

You squinted your eyes and mumbled sarcastically, “Well, since you’re being so nice about it.”

Natasha smirked and said, “Trust me; I’m being polite.”

Tony, however, looked thrilled at the proposition. “Alright, Natasha. You’re free to go.”

As you and Natasha headed toward the team’s private elevators, you looked back over your shoulder and couldn’t miss the amused glint in Steve’s eyes as he gave you a small wave goodbye.

* * *

An hour or so later, you were trying on what felt like the hundredth dress in the small boutique Natasha had taken you to.

“Nat,” you called from the dressing room, “This dress is over three hundred dollars, and it makes me look like one of those TV housewives. Are you trying to sabotage me?”

You heard a distant chuckle from somewhere in the adjacent clothing racks, “Well, you’ve said no to everything else, so I thought I’d try a different tack.”

“Yeah, well, it’s awful,” you huffed as you contorted yourself into a veritable pretzel in attempt to reach the zipper in the back to free yourself from the garment, “Why couldn’t we just go to Macy’s like I initially suggested? And don’t get all haughty about fashion and department stores on me.”

Natasha slipped through the curtain and seeing your plight, surged forward and pulled the zipper down, turning around to give you some privacy. “Hey, I would just like to see you support a local business and get something unique.”

You responded flatly, “How virtuous of you.” Once free from the dress, you slipped back into your work outfit, ignoring the other dresses she had brought you.

Seeing that you were back in your clothes, she protested, “Ah, c’mon, you can’t give up now. You have to get something tonight or not at all.”

You sighed, “I know, but I’ve pretty well exhausted all my choices here, don’t you think? Look, we’re in shopping district, so let’s just walk down the street and window shop for a bit, see if any place looks more promising than this store, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” was all she said as the two of you exited the store and into chilly wind of the street.

“I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on you about your wardrobe,” Nat said out of the blue several minutes later.

“Okay? Where’s this change of heart coming from all of sudden? You said I looked like a librarian.”

She laughed through her nose, “Oh, you absolutely do, without a doubt. But,” she held up her hand in a conceding gesture, “If it’s what you like and feel comfortable in, then who am I to judge?”

You smiled victoriously, “Glad you’re finally seeing things my way. Vintage looks are in.” You added jokingly, “Besides, I’ll have you know that there’s really hipster dive bar in my neighborhood, and I turn the heads of all the bearded lumberjack wannabees there.” You shook your head at yourself.

Natasha let out a laugh at that, “Well, you don’t only turn lumberjacks’ heads for what that’s worth.”

You stopped on the sidewalk, perplexed by what she said, “What is that supposed to mean? Who else am I supposedly getting the attention of? Other than Paul, of course.”

Seeing you were no longer beside her, Natasha turned and closed the distance on the sidewalk, “Oh, please. Don’t play dumb, Y/N. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

“Nat, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She held your gaze for a few long moments, making you practically squirm under her piercing eyes, “You really don’t, do you? Huh.” And she turned around and began walking down the sidewalk again, leaving you feeling even more perplexed than before.

You jogged a few steps to catch up to her. “Umm, can you please just tell me what you’re talking about? I’m at a loss.”

Natasha stopped to look at some of the dressed mannequins in a shop window before finally speaking, “On a scale of one to ten, would you say that your crush on Steve is a ten or is it a full on Spinal Tap eleven?”

The air in your lungs suddenly blew out of your chest, leaving you panting and breathless. “What?” You gasped out, “What do you mea— I’m not— What are you even talking—”

She stared at you in her way, “Wow, Y/N. Way to keep your cool. No one would suspect that I just hit a nerve.”

You took a few deep breaths and grimaced as you spoke, “Oh god, am I that obvious?”

Natasha stared at you still, and with no inflection responded tersely, “Pretty much.”

Your head was spinning. Did everyone know that you’d spent more than a year staring at Steve’s muscles? Could everyone see that your physical attraction had turned into something more? Did Steve know? Was he just being nice to the weird chick who was obsessed with him?

“Y/N. Breathe.” Natasha put a hand on your shoulder. “Everyone definitely knows. You don’t hide it that well. But unfortunately, Steve is an idiot, for all his merits, and he at least is as clueless as you.”

The relief you felt at hearing that Steve couldn’t see it was overshadowed by Natasha’s phrasing. “What do you mean ‘as clueless as me’?”

She smiled a toothy smile. “You know, for someone so smart, you can really miss the mark sometimes.” She lowered her head conspiratorially, “If you can’t see that Steve has been pining over you since the moment he first met you, then you never will. Hence, me getting involved in your business right now.”

She turned and grabbed your arm, leading you into the small shop. Your mind was spinning, desperately trying to catch up with the words that seemed to be dancing in circles around your brain like some perverse game of Duck Duck Goose.

Natasha, who was either oblivious to your mental state or willfully ignoring it—most likely the latter—pulled you enthusiastically up to a mannequin with a simple black dress on its frame, “Ooh! This is perfect. Simple, understated, and” she flipped over the tag, “Eh, not too bad of a price either.”

You were still shell shocked and speechless, so you mutely took the hanger from Natasha who led you to a changing room.

Steve? Pining? Over you? Since you’d met? Pining? Steve? What?

You didn’t even realize that your limbs were working on muscle memory as you slipped out of your work dress and into the little black dress. Your mind was going numb, but there was a slight tingle of excitement catching flame in the confused recesses.

In your daze, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. It was a nice dress. The neckline was low enough to be alluring but not so low that you felt uncomfortable. The skirt hit just above your knee, and the silhouette was flattering to your shape. Pair it with some flashy heels and jewelry, and you’d look quite done up.

You don’t know how long you stood there looking at yourself and lost in your thoughts, but Natasha finally announced, “Okay, I’m coming in no matter what.” And she stepped through the curtain. She let out a whistle before saying, “Damn. You look hot.”

You turned, your brows deeply furrowed, “What do you mean by pining over me?”

She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, “Are you still on that?” She smiled as she pulled at the skirt, fiddling with the way it draped, “Steve. You know the guy at work, the one we’ve been helping all week? You know, Captain America?”

“Nat.” You bit warningly.

She smiled as she continued, “That Steve is ass over elbows in love with you, and you’re in love with him, but you’re both idiots. So I’m telling you now so that you two can actually do something about it.”

You shook your head, still unable to wrap it around what she was saying, “How do you know he’s— that he likes me?”

“I know that he _loves_ you the same way I knew you loved him. I’m a spy, remember? It’s kinda my job to read people.” She gave you a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder before turning to leave, “Take that off. We’re getting it.”

Several minutes later, you both were exiting the shop, dress wrapped in a garment bag, as you headed to where she had parked the car.

Several blocks later, you were both still sitting in silence, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“What if you’re wrong?” Your voice competed with the sound of her sporty engine.

“Hmm?”

“What if you’re wrong about Steve? What if you’re misreading signs, and he’s just a friend. I couldn’t risk our friendship over this.”

You could see her knuckles briefly tighten around the steering wheel. “I’m not misreading anything.” She glanced over at you before returning her eyes to the road. “Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean you should go running into his arms right now because, let’s be honest, Steve’s kind of dealing with a lot at the moment. But he does like you. I can tell. You don’t see the way he looks at you when your back is turned, but I can. And I know what I’ve seen.”

You chewed your lip thoughtfully, “Okay, let’s pretend for a second that I believe you, which I don’t, but let’s pretend for a moment that I do. If I don’t tell him how I feel now, say, I wait until Banner and Cho find a way to cure him, wouldn’t that come off as less than genuine? That is if I wait until he’s strong and tall again to tell him I lo—like him?”

Natasha huffed, “That’s not what I meant. I just think that he’s in a delicate place right now, and the last thing he needs to worry about is his love life.”

You couldn’t argue with that logic. And you also couldn’t argue that you too had been seeing signs since he had come over to your apartment on Monday. Maybe there really was something to Natasha’s observations. Could Steve really love you as much as you were starting to love him?

That possibility thrilled you and brought back that rosy view of the world with renewed force. The only thing that can make you fly higher than love is the realization that it is returned in kind. And if Steve really did love you, you’d never stop flying up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yall so much for the comments and kudos. I legit pterodactyl screech every time I get a notification. <3


	8. In Which You Make Like Icarus and Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony’s party finally arrives, but you’re not really feeling it without Steve there to talk to you. With Natasha’s words still ringing in your mind, you leave the party early to go see him, and your wax wings finally melt.
> 
> **Trigger warning for this chapter:** Vivid description of panic/anxiety attack, I will bring you out of it though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. AM. SORRY. ༼ ༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ༽ Also, please send help. I keep googling these amazing dumbass emoticons.
> 
> In case you’re wondering, these are a couple examples of what Reader’s dress might look like? But, really it’s whatever you want to imagine. [Dress 1](https://www.modcloth.com/shop/dresses/dance-floor-date-a-line-dress/155176.html), [Dress 2](https://www.modcloth.com/shop/sale/illusion-a-line-dress-with-flutter-sleeves/154813.html), or [Dress 3](https://www.modcloth.com/shop/sale/optimal-aplomb-midi-dress/153809.html). ~~i just really like modcloth ok~~
> 
> Also, I added in [this prompt](http://writers-are-writers.tumblr.com/post/169138475326/prompt-879-you-dont-have-to-save-hundreds-from) from [@writers-are-writers](https://tmblr.co/mLvY0HxKhjOk2Wx0fsF4DIw), because it fit so perfectly in the conversation and I think really added to the dialogue. It will be bolded in the text.

You pressed your lips together as you finished applying a rather daring shade of lipstick. Your makeup was not nearly as skillful or fancy as when Wanda and Natasha had gotten you ready for your fake date, but you looked quite pretty nonetheless, if you could say so yourself. 

You did a once over of yourself in your bathroom mirror, checking that your appearance was finished to your liking before turning out the lights and heading to your kitchen where you did your best to give Douglass a few cuddles while also protecting your new black dress from his errant fur. And Douglass meanwhile did his absolute best to crawl into your lap and rub on you. Sigh, the wonderful burdens of pet ownership.

You glanced anxiously at the clock, your fingers drumming on your kitchen table. You knew if you were to leave now, you would arrive on time. And you knew from past experience that arriving on time meant being one of the first people at the party. 

Usually Steve would be there on time as well, his still somewhat old fashioned manners not allowing him to show up ‘fashionably late.’ In fact, your mutual punctuality at Tony’s parties was the biggest reason you and he had ever developed a friendship to begin with. But Steve would not be there at all tonight. You wouldn’t be able to joke with him about the flakiness of the rest of his team or enjoy talking to him before the room got too crowded and loud for intelligible conversation. If you showed up now, you’d be stuck waiting at the bar, alone, dodging anyone who might try to make small talk with you.

You had to resist the sudden urge to massage your eyes, which would no doubt ruin your makeup. You were regretting ever having agreed to come to this party. Why had you again? Oh right, because there was no way you could have predicted Steve’s absence from it. And between your feelings for him, which were threatening to bubble over your usually stoic façade, and Natasha’s assessment that Steve felt the same way, you were eager to see him. This party was just getting in the way of that.

As a twinge of disappointment settled in, you said hell with it and finally let Douglass onto your lap to cuddle properly to help pass the time and ease your nerves. You made a mental note to run the lint roller over yourself before leaving.

Just over an hour later, you were paying your cab driver and stepping out onto the busy sidewalk outside of Stark Tower. Because there were always high-profile guests attending Tony’s parties, there was a small gathering of paparazzi near one of the doors. At first, they swarmed toward you, but upon seeing that you were a nobody, they returned to their posts, vigilantly awaiting the arrivals of more notable guests. 

You couldn’t hide your smile and laughter at being so obviously brushed off. 

As soon as you entered the large multi-level room, you scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Almost immediately, your eyes fell on Paul, who luckily was facing away from you. You ducked behind a potted tree until you finally saw Wanda and Natasha walking up to the bar. 

“Hey guys!” You called, waving at them as you sidled up to the bar next to Wanda. 

Natasha gave you a friendly smile and greeting while Wanda, who had clearly already started drinking, wrapped you in a crushing hug. You awkwardly eased your hand from between the two of you and poked it around her side to give her a gentle pat. 

“Nat was right. Your dress really is a knock out!” She smiled big before turning to the bartender and ordering a refill of her drink.

You placed your hand over your chest and gave Natasha a heartfelt look, at which she rolled her eyes and laughed. 

When the bartender came to you for your drink order, you responded, “I’ll have a seltzer with a lime please.” 

This seemed to catch Natasha’s attention quickly, “Whoa, Y/N, you teetotaling tonight?”

“Uhm, yeah, I’m just not in the mood for drinking tonight.” You thought ruefully back to Monday night’s wine consumption before Steve had come over. The last thing you needed was to get sad drunk at one of Tony’s parties. “But please, don’t let me keep you from your fun!”

“Suit yourself,” came Wanda’s reply. You were grateful that neither seemed to want to press you further. 

The three of you headed over to a grouping of couches near the billiards table to watch Sam and Bucky yell their way through a game of pool. 

Despite your previous reservations about the party, you soon found yourself laughing along with Natasha and Wanda at Sam and Bucky’s antics. However, when they tried to get the three of you involved in the next game, you politely declined as Natasha and Wanda waltzed up to the pool table. You laughed at them as you got up to get another seltzer at the bar. 

While you were waiting for the bartender to come over, you felt a body sidle up next to you. Dreading that it might be Paul, you pretended not to notice until the weight of being ignored became too much for Tony.

“You know, I don’t usually get ignored by my guests at my own parties,” came his voice. You turned just in time to see his trademark smirk.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was you, Tony.” You greeted him cautiously, still wary from Saturday night.

“Oh, come on,” Tony gave you a pointed look, clearly able to read you, “Don’t you think it’s time we pretend like you and I are actual adults and kiss and make up?”

“Tony, if you kiss me, I’ll pepper spray you.” You teased back. “But I’ll settle for a friendly hug.”

“Deal.” And with that you both gave the other an affectionate squeeze. You were amazed by how many hugs you’d been giving and receiving lately.

“This is pretty big coming from me. I want you to know that. But, uh,” you rubbed your chin anxiously, “I’m sorry for acting like such an ass on Saturday, with regards to, everything.”

Tony pressed his lips together in an understanding smile, “Me too. Sorry for putting you in that position to begin with. It wasn’t really something you could freely say no to.” You nodded your head.

“Well, it’s done, so bygones be bygones?” You looked at him hopefully.

“I think I can handle that.” 

You couldn’t bite back your smile as you retorted, “Good, because I’m still expecting that reservation at Peter Luger’s.”

“Are you really still going to push for that?” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “What is your obsession with steak?”

“Tony, are you fucking kidding? It’s steak. I want to eat like the rich for just one night at the fanciest steakhouse New York. Throw me a bone here…as in a fat T-bone steak or rib roast or lamb chop or—”

“Fine, fine. You’ve made your point. I’ll make the reservation. Send me a text with a couple dates that you’ll be free, and I’ll see what I can do. Happy?”

“Very.” You smiled victoriously.

“Alright. Well I gotta go schmooze the guests. You okay here?” You were touched that Tony didn’t want to leave you alone.

“Yeah, I’m good. Go be a good host.” You reassured him.

By the time you caught the bartender’s eye—it was busy at the bar after all—you decided that you didn’t want to wait around for another seltzer. You’d made up your mind.

You stepped away from the bar and snuck as inconspicuously as possible to the elevators, grateful that no unsuspecting party goers had followed you in. You typed in your passcode and sighed deeply as the elevator swept you up to the residential floors. You had to go see him.

You had expected that Steve would be in his room or maybe in the screening room watching a movie or TV, but when you stepped out of the elevator doors into the large common area, you almost immediately spotted him in the cavernous dark room lined with shelves and shelves of books.

He was seated at a small table in a far corner, the dim golden glow of the desk lamp illuminating his hair. His hands were resting on either side of his sketchbook, and he was staring down at the blank page as if he could somehow conjure the pencil to pick itself up and move across the page through sheer willpower alone. 

You’d seen him quietly sketching before on several occasions or doodling on his notepad in meetings. He’d always looked restful when drawing, as though seeing his hands move in the exact way his brain commanded somehow set both his mind and his body at ease. Now, here before you, he looked anything but restful. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and the shadows underneath them seemed deeper and darker in the soft yellow lighting. 

Seeing Steve sit there in gloomy dejection made you want to go over to him and take him in your arms and hold him. But you were wise enough to simply sit down across from him and keep your hands to yourself. 

“Hey, Steve.” He did not look up.

A few silent moments passed before you tried again. “Whoa, I think I just saw the pencil move.” 

Still no response. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll leave you to your angsty brooding. I just wanted to say goodnight before I head home.” You stood from your seat.

As you turned to go, Steve’s head shot up and his hand darted out, grabbing gently at your wrist, “Y/N, please don’t go. Sorry.” He released his light grip on you as you settled back down into your seat across from him.

“What time is it?” He asked, his brows creased slightly.

You looked down at your wristwatch, “About a quarter after 10:00.”

“Why are you leaving so early?” His eyes were searching yours, “You usually stay a lot longer.”

You didn’t want to admit that it was because the party was no fun without him there to stare at and talk with, so you lied. “Oh, I’m just really tired, so I wasn’t feeling it. No big deal.”

Your answer, however, seemed to sufficiently convince him, and he nodded his head in response as he seemed to take in your appearance.

“Wow. Y/N, you look really,” he cleared his throat, “You look nice.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, but you kept your cool, “Thanks. Nat picked the dress out.”

He smirked before casting his eyes back down to the table.

“Drawing not going so well tonight?” You asked, gesturing down at his sketchbook.

He shook his head, looking down at the blank page sheepishly, “I guess not. Every time I pick up my pencil, I have to set it back down again. Just an off night, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” you sighed out in agreement.

You caught him looking up at you through his lashes before he looked back down at his sketchbook again. That was one thing about his appearance that hadn’t changed at all, his eyes. They were still the same shade of silky blue, rimmed by dark lashes so long and thick that you often found yourself almost jealous of him. But there was something else in his eyes that was familiar, the way he looked at you, the way his pupils sometimes grew of their own accord, and the way that when he looked at you, he sometimes made you feel as if you were the only one in the room. You let your heart hope for a brief moment that maybe Natasha really was right. Maybe you weren’t the only one pining here.

After several moments of silence, you whispered softly, a normal voice seeming too loud and too disrupting here in this quiet dark corner, “You okay? You look, I dunno, you look sad.”

Steve exhaled through his nose in what was almost an attempt at a laugh and looked down at his notebook again, “I was just thinking.”

You rolled your eyes slightly at his vague reply. “Well was what you were thinking about something unhappy?” You fought the urge to reach out and take one of his hands in yours.

“I was thinking about all of this.” He waved his hand over himself. “I guess I allowed myself to get too excited about the reverse serum, and now that it’s looking less and less likely that I—what am I trying to say—is that I guess I’m starting to accept that I’ll be like this again, forever.” He gave you a bitter smile, “What is it I’ve heard you say? As Lady Fortuna spins her wheel, all who fly too close to the sun will fall?”

“I think you’re confusing Fortune’s Wheel with Icarus, but it actually still kind of works, so…” You tried ducking your head to meet his gaze, a small smile on your lips, but he avoided your eyes. You gave up and leaned back into your seat. “You know, Steve? I know I can be pretty sarcastic sometimes and more than a little rude, but if you wanted to talk about whatever it is that you’re feeling, I’d listen.”

He looked up at you with what looked like a mixture of doubt and, was that hope? 

You put on a joking smile as you said, “C’mon, Steve. Let’s pretend just for a little while that I’m a deeply caring person who wants to get all emotional and listen to your problems.” If only he knew that you weren’t being all that ironic. 

He looked at you with an unreadable expression for a long moment. “What if they can’t change me back? What if I can’t go back to being Captain America? Just plain small Steve who still wants to fight but’ll get his head knocked in if he tries. I never realized how weak and vulnerable I used to be until I felt what it was like to be invincible.”

“Ok, so the first thing I have to say is that you were never invincible. Even Captain America had his weaknesses.” You gestured to him, “Case in point.”

He rolled his eyes but let you continue.

“But I would say that plain small Steve could find new ways to fight that don’t necessarily involve bodily risk.” You looked up, searching for the right words. “ **You don’t have to save hundreds from a burning building or stop the world from exploding to be valuable**.” You paused for a moment to let that sink in. “There’s cybercrime, strategic planning, hell, you could come work with me in PR. Just kidding about that last one, kind of.” 

He almost grinned at your gentle ribbing. “Okay, fine, I get it. I’ll still have a job, some way to be useful,” he groaned slightly, “but it does feel a bit, I dunno, like a bit of a cop out to hide here behind some desk while there are agents in the field risking their lives for others.”

You scoffed, “What? Do you think it was a cop out for me to go into PR? Not everyone can, or should, be a fighter. Sure, maybe a desk job has less glory, but it’s just as necessary.” Despite your growing love for him, you were tired of pandering to these waves self-pity, “While you and the rest of the Avengers are all out there playing toy soldiers, there are hundreds of desk agents, secretaries, and even the damn custodians back here at the tower and in D.C. making sure that you’re able to do what you do seamlessly.”

He put his hands up defensively, “Tha— that’s not what I mean. I, geez, it’s just that I’m supposed to be Captain America. You know, ‘women want him, men want to be him.’ Who’s going to even look twice at me now,” he looked down at himself appraisingly. 

You did. You looked at him for a long moment. “Look, I get it. I’ve probably been guilty of objectifying you in the past. Okay, make that definitely. But the point is, well, geez. What I’m saying is that for what it’s worth, when you haven’t been busy feeling sorry for yourself this last week, you’ve actually been pretty fun to be around and to, y’know talk to and stuff. Looks aren’t everything.”

Steve gave you a sarcastic smile, but his eyes brightening ever so slightly. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Okay,” you drew the sounds out, “Let’s not get all emotional here, but…yeah, I care. There, are you happy? I pretty much hate everyone, but you make it really hard for me to dislike you.”

You too looked at him hopefully as you continued, “You know, this may come as a shock to you, but what if I told that you’re surrounded by people who love you and care about you not because you’re Captain America, but because you’re a dear friend? Would that make any difference? Because from my part, at least, when you go off on dangerous missions, I don’t worry that Captain America will get hurt, he’s just a symbol, an idea. I worry about Steve, the flesh and blood man who means the world to me.” You regretted this admitting so much even as the words left your mouth. Had you given away too much of what you’d been keeping hidden?

Had you not been looking down, distracting yourself by gently pushing back your cuticles, you might have seen the rush of longing and hope that came into Steve’s face at your words. You might have seen the way his fingers twitched, urging him to take your hands. You might have also seen the subsequent wave of sadness and doubt that took over his features. But you didn’t see any of it. All you saw was a small hangnail at the corner of your index finger as you fought the urge to pick at it.

“But that’s different,” he forced the words out. “Of course you care; you’re a _friend_.” The words tasted sharp in his mouth and sounded warningly in your ears. “But what kind of woman would want to be with someone like me, y’know, as more than a friend?”

Something about his phrasing put you on your guard, and you chose to deflect his words rather than to actually address them. “You have a particular woman in mind there, Steve?” You said through a forced and very fake smile. You could feel your ribcage tightening, constricting your lungs and heart, dreading what he might say. There was, however, in the depths of your mind a small speck of a voice calling quietly _maybe Natasha was right and he’ll say it’s you_ , but your sudden wave of self-doubt and your already pessimistic nature overpowered that fiend of false hope.

Steve looked down thoughtfully for a moment, seeming to weigh your words and what his response should be, “Well, I thought I might have had a chance with this one woman before all of this.” You looked away as your breath caught in your throat, unable to see his face or meet his eyes. “But I’m starting to think that she loves me as a friend and nothing more. And don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for that friendship. But look at me. If she’s only ever looked at me as a friend before, then that’s definitely not going to change now.”

 _She_? He had a she? You were suddenly assailed by an unbidden vision of Steve smiling at Sharon Carter and laughing with her, her hand playfully resting on his shoulder, and that small hopeful speck imploded on itself. Of course it was a _she_? How could it have ever have been a _you?_  Why on earth had you allowed yourself to be deluded otherwise? Icarus indeed. You’d allowed your newfound feelings of love to lift you effervescently above the ground, and now your wax wings were melting in the light of reality. And what a long, hard fall it was. 

You really did love him. Sure he was small, sure his appearance was different. But none of that mattered. He was still Steve inside. You still looked at him with the same longing as you had the previous week when you had spilled coffee down your front. You still wanted to tease him and make him laugh at you as you made fun of his age. You still ached to feel the warmth coming off his shoulders as he reached across you. You ached. You trembled. Your ribs which had been shrinking and compressing your chest suddenly snapped and let go of their hold. And instead of feeling a lightness at this new freedom in your breast, you felt hollow.

You must not have been hiding your reaction well because Steve’s voice, laced with concern, cut through the haze. He sounded as if his voice were filtering through a seashell you’d found on the beach, distant and echoing. 

You had to get out. You couldn’t speak. Emotions in general were hard enough to deal with, but this? This made you want to run. You stood up from your chair abruptly, swaying at the sudden change in altitude. 

“Sorry, gotta go.” You picked up your purse, which was slung over the back of your chair.

“Y/N? Y/N, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Steve was attempting to pull your arm back and get you to sit down, fearing that you were having some kind of episode, which you totally were. But even in this state, you were still stronger than him, and you pulled out of his grasp.

“I think the bourbon’s coming back up,” you lied quickly as you rushed to the small powder bath across the room. 

You slammed the door shut and locked it behind you, bracing yourself on the sink and telling yourself over and over, _you will not cry, you will not cry_. You repeated the words in your mind in an attempt to calm yourself. But your breath was coming in short shallow gasps and your head was beginning to swim. You knew this feeling; you knew what was happening. 

You collapsed onto the lid of the toilet, putting your head between your knees and breathing deeply, and whispered the same words you’d whispered a hundred times before in moments like this.

_I felt a Cleaving in my Mind_  
As if my Brain had split  
I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—  
But could not make them fit. 

You recited the stanza a second time, a third time, a fourth time, a fifth time, and finally you felt your heart begin to slow. Your breathing was now beginning to come in regular draughts, if still a bit shaky, as you slowly sat upright, resting your forehead in your hands. Dickenson’s poem was a rather ironic mantra to use to bring yourself down from a panic attack, but something about the words made you feel less alone, that if she had been able to come back from them, then so could you.

A soft knock on the bathroom door made your head snap up and your chest threaten to constrict again.

“Y/N, are you okay in there? Need me to text Natasha or Wanda?” Steve’s voice sounded muffled through the solid oak door.

Your voice came out a bit ragged, “No, I’m okay. I just, can you call me a cab? I think I need to go home and sleep this off.”

Steve hesitated several long seconds, “Okay.” His words were laced with questioning, “You want me to get you a glass of water or some aspirin or something?”

“No. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay, call out if you need me.” You could sense him waiting by the door for a solid minute before you finally heard the sound of his feet shuffling away.

You took a few more minutes to catch your breath, reciting the poem in your mind several more times. You flushed the toilet in case Steve were nearby. You were supposedly throwing up in here, after all. He didn’t need to know that you were, in fact, having a heart break induced panic attack.

You stood slowly and looked at your reflection in the mirror. You could have looked worse, you tried to comfort yourself. At least you hadn’t cried, so your makeup was still mostly in place, if a little smudged from holding your eyes so tightly shut and from the sheen of perspiration that still clung to your hairline. You took a tissue from your purse and daubed at your smudged lipstick and your forehead.

Within minutes, Steve knocked again, “Your cab’s here. Y/N?”

You took a deep breath and looked at yourself again. _I felt a Cleaving in my mind_ …

When you opened the door, you were met by Steve’s face, which was contorted with worry. 

“I’m okay. Just went a bit wild with the hooch, I guess.” You couldn’t bear the thought of Steve finding out about what you were really going through, especially not now, now that you knew he would never return your feelings because he’d already given them to someone else.

He pressed his lips together, “C’mon, I’ll walk you down.” 

The silence in the elevator was oppressive, so you finally decided to say something. “Sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t be left to my own devices at an open bar.” You took a deep breath, knowing these words would not come easy. “But if you want my opinion about your problem with this woman, and I— I speak from experience when I say this, never expend emotion on someone who will never do the same for you. You’ll just end up drained and exhausted, as well as heartbroken.” 

From the corner of your eye, you could see his head turn to look at you. “If, if this woman is even halfway worthy of your admiration, she’ll love you for who you are, not what you look like. And if she doesn’t,” _I tried to match it—Seam by Seam_ , “Just know somewhere out there, there’s someone who will love you for you.”

You could almost hear Steve thinking. But before he could respond, the elevator dinged and the doors opened to the ground floor lobby. He bit back whatever he had wanted to say and tugged a ball cap, which had been in his jacket pocket, low over his forehead as you both left the building and headed to the waiting cab, grateful that the paparazzi had long dispersed.

You reached for the cab’s door handle at the same time as Steve. Your hands brushed, but you pulled your hand back as if you’d touched a hot stove. That should have been one of those chest-tingling moments from a romantic comedy, the kind that made audiences squeal at the romantic tension between the two characters. But instead, it just filled you with overwhelming regret.

Steve opened the door for you, and you fumbled into the car seat.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” Steve was still looking at you with concern. “I hope you feel better. Drink lots of water.”

You took a moment to look at the shape of his brows, the slope of his nose, the look in his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks for calling the cab. I’ll see you tomorrow before we leave for D.C.” You closed the door without waiting for a response, giving the driver your address. The cab sped away, leaving a confused and dejected Steve standing on the curb, staring at the retreating tail lights, his hat pulled low and lapels pulled high around his face. 

Steve, through his own storm of emotions, couldn’t help but wonder how you could have been so drunk as to throw up for a good ten minutes, but he hadn’t smelled the bourbon on your breath. With a futile sigh, he turned and walked back to the tower doors.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE DON’T YELL AT ME OK I AM ALSO IN A FRAGILE EMOTIONAL STATE OVER THIS (Lol, jk. Yall can yell all you want. Flame me.)
> 
> Also, Thank yall so much for your comments; they mean the world to me!!


	9. In Which the Avengers Pull and Ocean’s Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the team ready for their trip to D.C for the Smithsonian dedication, Dr. Cho and Banner have a breakthrough with their serum, and the team must take drastic measures to get Captain America back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! I was really struggling with the ending, but I think I like how it turned out. This has barely been edited, so god only knows what horrors lie below. Send me an ask or DM with corrections if you want, but no worries.
> 
> Also, that [podcast](http://www.radiolab.org/story/update-crispr/) I mentioned waaay back in Part 2 is going to come up again here briefly. But I’ll actually do something meaningful with in a couple chapters.

Your pillow was still damp when your alarm woke you, puffy eyes, swollen lips, and the heavy weight of last night on your chest. There was also the literal weight of Douglass’s softly purring body on your chest, who, seeing you awaken, jumped off of you, meowing his way expectantly to his food bowl. You lay in bed motionless a few moments longer.

His words echoed in your mind.

_Well, I thought I might have had a chance with this one woman before all of this…_

_…this one woman…_

_…she loves me as a friend…_

_…she…_

You felt numb as you walked out and poured some kibble out for Douglass, made a cup of coffee, and grabbed a cool pack from your fridge to calm your swollen eyelids. Exhaustion seemed to weaken every muscle and joint in your body and your head had dull ache from the exertion of crying. But presently, you were so tired that you couldn’t cry, you couldn’t sigh, you couldn’t frown, you couldn’t even feel. 

You spent most of the morning laying around in your pajamas. Even when Douglass jumped onto the couch next to you to knead biscuits into the fleece blanket covering your middle, you didn’t have the energy or willpower to reach down and scratch between his shoulders where he liked it best. The morning news program that you normally watched intently played unnoticed in the background. You were listless. You were drained.

You knew you would have to get up from the couch eventually. Even though you knew everyone on the team had been getting wasted at the party the night before, their hangovers would have to wait as would your fragile emotional state. Tony had scheduled his private jet to leave at one o’clock. It was already past eleven. You needed to get up, shower, get dressed, and pack an overnight bag for D.C. 

With a shallow, hiccupping breath, you stood from the couch, patted Douglass on the head and made your way to the bathroom where spent almost thirty minutes letting the steaming water cleanse the tear stains from your face and ease the aching in your head.

After packing your overnight bag, carefully laying out your work dress for the dedication ceremony, you called a cab to pick you up. As you spent a few last minutes snuggling with Douglass, feeling guiltily for having spent most of the morning ignoring him, you double checked your instruction sheets for your neighbor’s teenage daughter, who would be watching him overnight.

Finally, after doubling back twice to nuzzle and kiss Douglass, you went down to the street and your waiting taxi. 

The taxi driver was nothing if not efficient, and you arrived at the small private airfield at 12:25, well ahead of schedule and well before the others were scheduled to arrive. With a resigned sigh, you paid your fare and walked over and waited in the small indoor lobby.

You took out your iPod and selected the podcast that you had been listening to in the gym that morning just over a week ago when Steve had surprised you. Your chest gave an uncomfortable spasm at that thought. Hardly any time had passed since that day, but so much had changed since then that it felt like months ago. You ruefully wished for a time machine that could take you back to that moment when you had been content to just look at Steve and only occasionally got jealous. You wanted to go back to not feeling like this, not longing for something you could never have. 

And on top of it all, Sharon’s face kept appearing in the background of your mind. Maybe she was Steve’s mystery crush; maybe she wasn’t. Ultimately, as hard as the pill was to swallow, you knew it was none of your business. If Steve had wanted you to know who he’d been talking about last night, he would have told you. 

You wanted to hate her, this woman whom Steve had clearly fallen for. Was she prettier than you? Was she the kind of sweet and affectionate person that you could be? You wanted to be the woman Steve had fallen for, not her. And you wanted to let your jealousy turn into hatred for her. But you couldn’t. Not even you, cynical, pessimistic, misanthropic you, could be so petty as to hate her, whoever ‘her’ was. You had seen the way Steve’s face had positively lit up with love and gut-wrenching yearning when he’d talked about her. You couldn’t hate something that Steve so clearly loved, especially since that something was a someone. 

You were Steve’s friend, nothing more. You had only two choices, to stand by him in support or to breeze away like a fair-weather friend. While neither option was particularly appealing, you’d rather have Steve in your life than not, bittersweet though it may be.

With an audible sigh, you turned off the podcast and replaced it with a relaxing playlist. Your mind was too inattentive to pay much heed to the complicated and weighty discussions the hosts were having about the ethics of genetic engineering. 

After about fifteen minutes of staring out the window, you finally saw a pair of black SUVs pull up. You stashed your iPod in your purse, and made your way outside to join the team as they began stepping out of the SUVs and retrieving their luggage. Everyone’s spirits were unusually high, which struck you as odd. You had been expecting to see the muted faces, sunglasses, and shaky hands typical of hangovers, but instead you saw euphoric faces and…your heart clenched. You saw Steve’s face among them as well. What was he doing here?

As Tony began leading everyone to his jet, you settled yourself between Natasha and Wanda, ignoring Steve’s attempts to catch your eye. Natasha gave you a questioning expression—you knew still looked pretty rough what with the barely concealed puffy eyes and overall haggard appearance—but you just shook your head at her and muttered under your breath, “Later.” 

You were largely heedless of the happy voices and elevated mood of the others as you continued to walk under your own personal raincloud. You still couldn’t figure out why Steve was coming to D.C. There was no point in bringing him along; it wasn’t like he would be speaking at the dedication or even permitted to attend it as a guest. In fact, having him come on this trip would most likely prove to be a liability if he were to be seen and recognized by anyone. 

You took the seat between Natasha and Wanda while the plane prepared to taxi and take off. Before you knew it, the small jet was cruising on the short flight to D.C.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to keep to yourself for long, so it came as no surprise to you when Tony, in his typical fashion, loudly called attention to you and your rather disheveled state.

“Well, Y/N, you look like hell this morning. What happened?” 

You frowned and let your gaze flicker to Steve’s eyes, which were fixed on you, and remembering your lie from the previous night, you grumbled, “Yeah, thanks for that, Tony. I’ve just got a killer hangover. That’s all.” 

You could almost feel Natasha frown next to you as she said, “Weren’t you just drinking water last night?” 

You elbowed her a subtly as possible, “What? No…I was drinking, uh, vodka sodas.” You regretted saying this almost immediately. Everyone knew that you had a strong disdain for the liquor. In fact, you had once described vodka sodas to Steve as carbonated rubbing alcohol; on top of that you distinctly remembered telling Steve last night that you’d been drinking bourbon. 

You could see Steve’s confused frown from the corner of your eye and knew your entire spur-of-the-moment lie from the night before was unravelling with every word you spoke. You could only hope that Steve would simply accept that you had been drunk and that your faulty memory of the previous night was a direct result of that. The last thing you wanted or needed right now was to be subjected to a conversation about last night with him.

“Regardless,” Tony luckily accepted your version of events without question, “you’re probably wondering why Steve is with us today. Bruce, want to fill her in?”

Dr. Banner looked up from his laptop that he had been attentively typing at this whole time, “Huh? What’s that?”

“Bruce, tell Y/N about yours and Helen’s progress, why don’t you.” Tony could barely suppress the grin itching to take over his face.

“Oh, right,” Banner took off his glasses, distractedly wiping at them with a corner of his shirt, “We have a serum for Steve. We’ll inject him with it tonight and put him in the vita radiation pod, and hopefully, we’ll have Captain America back by tomorrow for the dedication.” 

You could barely hear Tony remark something about Banner not having enough pomp and dramatic elements in the big reveal. He was muted by the sounds of your thoughts trying to catch up what Banner was saying. 

Your eyes snapped to Steve’s form. He was looking at you expectantly, a happy smile brightening his eyes and reviving a spark that had been missing from them the last week. Suddenly you understood why everyone was giddy rather than sleepy and hungover.

You found your voice after a moment, speaking over Tony, who was still heckling Banner, “Okay, back up. What? Please start from the top and, I dunno, give it to me stepwise.”

Banner cleared his throat and straightened his glasses on his nose, “Well, I figured you want to skip over the science and just get to the facts.”

“That is a correct assumption. But I just— How do we even know if your serum is safe?” 

“We’ve done a lot of simulations in the lab, plus the chemicals we’re working with, well, we know how they’ll interact in the body, just simple biochemistry there. And as for the radiation pod, well, Steve’s lived through it once before. So, we’re pretty sure that the worst-case scenario is that the serum and radiation will have no effect, and we’ll have to start at square one.”

You shook your head, “Okay, but what if it’s not safe. Are you going to test it on, like, a rat or a monkey or something first?”

Tony cleared his throat and looked at you with slack eyes, “Y/N, you know we do not permit animal testing of any kind at Stark Industries.” 

You clicked your tongue in annoyance, “Ok, get down from that high horse before you get thrown. Maybe in this one and only instance we try it out on something that is not Steve. He’s kind of irreplaceable, am I not correct?”

Steve seemed to sit up a little higher in his chair, “As excited as I am about the serum, Y/N does kind of have a point. I am irreplaceable.” He smirked over at you confidently.

You couldn’t help the sigh and slight roll of your eyes that followed. You were trying to be mature and reasonable about your apparent romantic failings, but it was hard not feel resentful at the moment while your hurt feelings were still so raw. You didn’t notice the way his face fell slightly as you turned your gaze back to Banner.

He shrugged his shoulder sheepishly, “Dr. Cho did several simulations and tests on human tissue samples,” you grimaced at that, “and we have not foreseen any possible side effects or negative outcomes. We can’t test this on another species because the serum is made to specifically alter human DNA, and we can’t test it on another human being either because, remember, this serum is formulated to act as a reversal for the anti-serum Steve was hit with.”

You raised your brows and squinted your eyes as you tried to keep up with what Dr. Banner was saying. “So what you’re saying is that the only way to test it is on Steve?” You chanced a brief glance at Steve, whose gaze was still fixed on you.

“Exactly. Unless we can find another person altered with the original serum—and not even Barnes had the original serum—and reverse their reaction with the anti-serum, then Steve is the only person on Earth for whom this new serum here will work.” And with that he opened and showed you and the others a small pelican case containing three vials of a pale, cloudy turquoise liquid. Banner turned his eyes to Steve, “Look, no one can make you go through with this, but you did agree to this just a couple hours ago. Having second thoughts?”

Steve looked briefly at you, a small flicker of emotion beneath his lashes, before he fixed Banner with a determined gaze, “None. I’m ready for this.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Steve was really going to let himself be injected with a serum and thrown in a pod and be subjected to intense radiation without any kind of tests or assurances that he wouldn’t die in the process…a second time.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “I know my opinion does not actually have any weight in this decision, but I would just like the record to show that I do not, in any way, approve of this course of action.” All eyes shot to you, and your breathing hitched slightly, “Besides, how the hell do any of you plan on getting access to the radiation pod? Did you think about that teensy problem?”

Tony had a glint in his eyes, “We’re going to break into the Smithsonian.”

The silence was palpable for a long moment before you heard Natasha next to you quietly trying to hide her snickers. Well, at least you weren’t the only one who thought this was absurd. You fixed Tony with a skeptical look, letting the silence hang a moment longer.

“I mean this with all due respect because you are my boss, but that is quite possibly the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard in my life. And I’m surrounded by idiots every day.” Your voice was rising as you spoke.

Tony scoffed, “If that’s a dig at us then—”

“It most certainly was a dig at you,” you interrupted, “What the actual fuck, Tony? Everyone?” You looked around the small plane seeing facial expressions ranging from indignation, embarrassment, or, in Natasha’s case, barely contained amusement. “Wanna steal the Declaration of Independence and unravel America’s secrets while we’re at it, Nicholas Cage? I mean, come one. This is some Dennis the Menace level shit here.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s not get carried away with ourselves.” Tony looked at you crossly, “I think we have a few advantages over Nicholas Cage and Dennis the Menace. We’ve got the whole team here, and we’ve done even more impossible missions than this before. And Wanda here has spent the last week practicing getting past the security systems at the tower with her powers. Plus,” he added with a wry smirk, “I’m Tony Stark.”

You rolled your eyes at that as Wanda’s soft voice came from beside you, “Truly, Y/N. I’ve gotten really good in the last week. I broke into Tony’s penthouse two nights ago while he and Pepper were asleep,” a mischievous tone in her voice.

“Well thank god they weren’t doing anything else,” you muttered lowly.

“Hey now,” Tony warned in good humor.

You shook your head, “Okay, so let me get this straight,” your hands doing as much talking as your voice, “We have an untested serum that we’re going to inject into Steve. You are then going to break into the Smithsonian in the middle of the day, somehow power up the Vita Radiation pod—I’m guessing with your arc reactor technology—, and then fry Steve in it until he’s good and crispy. Am I getting that all correctly?”

Tony deadpanned, “Don’t be stupid, Y/N. We’re not breaking in until well into the night.” 

Before you or Tony could continue to argue, Steve ducked his head under his ball cap as the co-pilot came out of the cockpit. 

“Folks, we’re just a few minutes from final approach and we’ve gotten the all clear from air traffic control to land. So if you’ll all buckle up, we’ll have you on the ground in less than ten minutes.” He gave you all a winning smile before returning to the cockpit.

You cinched your lap belt down tight as Natasha finally muttered in your ear, “Okay, so do you want to tell me what’s going on? We’ll probably not get a chance to talk until tomorrow after the ceremony.”

You whispered back, grateful for the increasing volume of the jet’s engines making it harder for anyone to eavesdrop, “Steve doesn’t like me as anything but a friend. You were wrong. I’m okay, promise.” 

“What?!” She whisper yelled.

You shushed her, “Keep it down, will ya? I snuck out of the party last night and was talking to Steve about all this, y’know before Banner’s big news. And he mentioned that there was a woman he loved. Obviously not me.”

Natasha glanced between you and him with a frustrated look of concern, and you hoped that Steve was not seeing this exchange. “What do you mean ‘woman’? What exactly did he say?” 

The conversation of the serum had kept you distracted from the ache in your chest, but with her prodding, it was returning with renewed intensity. “It doesn’t matter, Nat. Please just drop it.” You looked at her, and she could plainly read the pain in your eyes. 

She simply took your hand, lacing her fingers with yours and stroked your knuckles with her thumb comfortingly. For someone who should have been so hardened by life, Natasha was stunning you with her warm compassion.

You stole a glance at Steve. He was staring out the window at the approaching ground, a small crease between his brows. 

Immediately after exiting the plane, you looked back at Steve once more, his scarf, hat, and sunglasses covering almost all of his face, before you headed over to a harried looking woman whom you presumed to be Joyce. This was where you would split from the team for the remainder of the day. 

You would go with Joyce to the Smithsonian’s new exhibit and give statements to journalists and answer their questions before going over the program and working out any last minute logistical kinks with Joyce and her PR team. You couldn’t decide whether or not you should hint at Captain America’s possible arrival for tomorrow. Meanwhile, the team would be at the penthouse Tony had rented, planning for their version of a heist movie, you presumed.

* * *

Even though you were exhausted from working all afternoon on a Saturday, by the time you made it to the penthouse that night, you were grateful for such busy day as it had kept your mind and your body occupied with something other than self-pity or crying. 

When you walked into the main living area, the team were strategizing while lounging on the sharp modern looking furniture. And immediately after you were noticed, the room went dead silent as everyone tried to act like they hadn’t just been talking.

You gave them a humorless smile as you said sarcastically, “What’s that old saying? Haters are like crickets. They make a lot of noise, but when you walk right by them, they get quiet. Thanks, guys.”

Tony sprang up from the couch, “Now, Y/N. Don’t be so dramatic. We’re planning for tonight You’re our spokesperson on this trip after all, and if you need to make a statement on anything that may or may not happen tonight, the less you know the better. Call it plausible deniability.” 

You shook your head disapprovingly, “I would like to once again voice my utter and complete objection to this plan if you can even call it one.” You grabbed a beer from the fridge, “Well fine. At risk of sounding like a degenerate alcoholic, I’m gonna go have a shower beer and leave you all to your plots and schemes.”

After stepping into several wrong rooms, you finally found the one with your luggage on the bed. Your shower was long and relaxing as you relished in the lavish bathroom, complete with its black marble walls and rain shower system. You loved getting to be a tourist in lives of the rich and famous.

After you had finished toweling off and were going through your emails one last time before bed, there was a quiet knock on your door. A lump formed in your throat because you had a feeling you knew who was on the other side.

You cracked open the door to reveal Steve who was holding a small envelope in his hands.

“Can I come in?” He asked when you made no move to open the door wider.

You sighed and nodded your head, gesturing him inside before softly closing the door behind you.

“What’s up?” You tried to sound casual.

Steve took a seat on the corner of your bed. You took one on the edge a good two feet down from him.

“There’s a couple things. First, are you okay? Last night you kind of scared me.” He was looking in his lap as he spoke, fiddling with the edge of the envelope.

You swallowed at the lump in your throat, “Yeah, sorry about that. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. It’s all just a blur, barely remember anything.”

He looked far from convinced, no doubt still remembering what Natasha had said on the plane about you drinking water all night. But he let it drop. “Well, just be more careful next time, I suppose.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Do you really not remember anything? Do you not remember sneaking up to see me?”

You could feel your pulse quickening as it had done the night before, but you were prepared this time and fought back your rising anxiety. And you did what you did best. Avoided, deflected, denied. “Oh, you know, a little here and there but not much. I do remember you calling me a cab, so thanks for that.” 

You looked around as you tried to figure out what to say next, and your eyes landed once again on the envelope. You kept your voice casual and light, “So, you gonna tell me what’s in the envelope or what?” 

“Hmm?” He looked up before remembering it was still between his fingers, “Oh, this.” He held it out to you and you took it. “Don’t open it yet. I just wanted, well, how do I say this?”

You smiled a little despite yourself, “Well, you could start by sounding it out?”

He rolled his eyes but his lips tugged up at the corners, “Hilarious as always.” His face became serious again, “If anything happens tonight, read the letter. If not, I’ll get it back from you in the morning.”

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him with concern, “Steve, don’t talk like that. Besides, if this is some kind of a will, you should really have a lawyer look at it,” you teased trying to lighten the fog that descended on the two of you.

“It’s not a will.” He rubbed at his eyes, “I just— There’s just some things I had to get off my chest, and if I make it through tonight unscathed, then I promise I’ll just tell you in person and not in a letter.”

Everything about his tone, his posture, and the things you could read between his words were alarming. Was Steve really planning for the possibility that he wouldn’t come out of this alive? Was he really willing to risk all that for the chance at becoming Captain America again? You wanted to shake him or box his ears to make him see sense. You wanted to yell at him about how stupid and short sighted he was being. You wanted to make him see just how valuable he was just the way he was now.

But you didn’t do or say any of those things. You could tell he was scared, and the last thing he needed was for a friend to deny him support.

“Y/N, say something?” His plea sounded more like a question.

You looked over at the wall, unable to look him in the eye, “You really are a drama queen sometimes, you know?” You could hear him chuckle lowly, “You better have a really good explanation for all these theatrics when you get back, and don’t you dare wait for the morning. You come in here and wake me up the instant you make it back and explain yourself. Got it?” You smiled, and it was actually almost genuine.

Steve smiled right back, “Cross my heart.”

He got up to leave, his hand resting on the doorknob as he hesitated. He looked back at you, his eyes dark with things unsaid, “ ‘Night, Y/N. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

The door clicked shut, and you looked down at the envelope. You were tempted to say fuck it and open it right there. But it was late and you were tired. And the last thing you wanted to do was to betray your friendship with Steve, seeing as how that was all you were going to ever have with him. 

You tucked the envelope inside your suitcase for safe keeping, double checked the alarm on your phone, fell back into the silky soft sheets made for someone with a much larger bank account that you could ever dream of, and slowly drifted to sleep, oblivious of what tomorrow would bring.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try not to be late with Part 10, I’ve just been a lazy fucker this las week. 
> 
> Thanks every single one of you, as always, for reading!! :D When I see yall's kudos and comments, it seriously makes my day. Love yall!


	10. In Which You Develop a Fear of Public Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your public speaking skills are put the test when Tony’s damn plan doesn’t go to plan. Typical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is this is late AS USUAL, but look how long it is. Sigh. As always forgive the typos and feel free to send an ask on my tumblr (see bio) if they’re especially awful this week.

You were awoken by the chiming of your phone alarm, and your fingers blindly felt around the edges of the damnable object until the chiming stopped. It took you a few moments to find your bearings, waking up in an unfamiliar room without the prodding of Douglass’s paws on your shoulder. You saw the blurry red numbers on the bedside clock. 5:20. Yep, that’s what you had set your alarm for. Now, where exactly were you again? Your mind quickly shuffled through the last twenty-four hours in an attempt to reorient itself. 

Oh that’s right: hotel penthouse, D.C., dedication ceremony, wait a minute, Steve, serum, Nicholas Cage, Steve was supposed to wake you up.

You jerked out of bed. Steve was supposed to have woken you up when he got back. Why hadn’t he? You repressed any thoughts about what might have gone wrong, and settled for assuming that he simply had chosen not to wake you as he had promised. You grabbed the fluffy hotel robe from the hook on your bathroom door, wrapping it around your pajamas rather than putting on a bra under your night shirt, and shuffled into the hallway, anticipating getting to see the Avengers in all their early morning glory. But whole penthouse was dead quiet. Surely Natasha or Bucky, both naturally early risers would have been up and at ‘em by now. As you padded out into the common area, you were met by more silence and an empty kitchen. 

You shook off any anxieties at your apparent solitude, making a large pot of coffee in the hopes that the toasty aroma would bring the team out of hiding. While the machine puffed and chugged away, steam wafting up from the carafe, you went to retrieve your phone from your bedroom. 

You almost dropped it as soon as soon you pulled up your notifications. There were several missed calls and more than a few texts from Tony, Natasha, and Sam.

Pulling up the text thread from Tony, you could feel the blood drain from your face as you walked stiffly to the kitchen and poured yourself a cup of coffee.

> **Boss Man:** Uh yeah. 911 here. Pick up your phone please. 11:51pm  
>  You are probably asleep but I’ll keep texting and calling until you wake up 11:54pm  
>  Is your phone on silent? Or are you dead? 11:59pm
> 
> Ok, you’re clearly asleep, so I’ll just summarize. The whole serum thing is taking a teensy bit longer than anticipated. Turns out that the radiation pod was in the exhibit and not the storage facility so we’re at the museum….and…we’ve had to hide behind the dresses in the First Ladies exhibit while the police sweep the area…because we set off an alarm we didn’t know about. And before you say I told you so, we know that you told us so. I’ll check in later. 12:11am
> 
> Ok, update. The cops finally left. We’re heading toward the Captain America exhibit now. I’m sending Bucky back to the hotel since he’s not much use here. And before you ask, yes, the rest of us will be there in time for the dedication. 4:56am

You briefly pondered going over to the penthouse wet bar and pouring a couple shots of Jameson into your coffee before you heard the main door open. Tony’s last text hadn’t been sent all that long ago, so you assumed it was probably Bucky. 

When he came into the kitchen area, shuffling his feet with fatigue, you were torn between yelling at him and laughing at his pitiful state. In the end, you settled for giving Bucky a sympathetic look and a fresh pour of coffee while you leaned your hip against the counter.

“So…” you said expectantly before trailing off, letting the word hang like an accusation. 

“Y/N, before you even start, just, don’t start,” Bucky sighed into his mug, the rebounding steam blowing a few long strands of hair from his face. 

You cocked a brow at him in return in a silent bid for him to give you an explanation.

Bucky set his mug roughly down on the small granite, rubbing at his eyes furiously with his flesh hand, “For the record, I was not on board with this whole plan, just so you know.” He pointed at you then himself, “You and I are on the same side is what I mean.”

You just looked at him, one brow still raised in amusement.

He looked up at you looking more like a puppy who got caught chewing the couch cushions than a brave super soldier. “Tony was having some problems getting his arc reactor connected to radiation pod, so they are maybe, possibly going to be running late, by which I mean definitely a few hours late.”

“What?!” You shouted, regretting your elevated tone when you saw the way Bucky flinched away from you. Way to go. Yell at someone with a history of repeated trauma. You held your hands up consolingly, “Sorry, sorry.” You took a calming breath and ducked your head down a little to meet his eye line, “Can you give me a bit more to work with, like an ETA?”

He shook his head slightly and looked back at you with his guilty, puppy dog eyes, “Ironically, they’re going to be as late as they are because you convinced Dr. Banner to do a dry run with some sort of radiation sensor in the pod before injecting Steve and tossing him in.” He looked at you thankfully, “ ‘Course none of this would have been such an issue if Tony hadn’t tripped the goddamn alarm by jumping onto the height comparison platform.”

You grimaced and laughed painfully into your hands, “You know what? Any other day, I might have actually asked, but I’m just gonna let my imagination have that one.” You looked up from your hands and noticed the dark circles around Bucky’s bloodshot eyes. You felt a pang of guilt wash through you; while you were definitely more than a little bit short on sleep, Bucky hadn’t slept at all. “Tell, you what. This kitchen is pretty well stocked, so I’ll make us breakfast and you can tell me all about this shitshow that’s about to go down, yeah? Anything you’re craving?”

A brief flash of relief flashed across Bucky’s face, “Pancakes, sausage, and eggs…and hash browns?” He cautioned.

You managed to let a small laugh escape your lips at his abundant appetite, “Want me to throw in some bacon, biscuits and gravy, and grits in there too?”

Bucky pressed his lips together in a sheepish smile, “It’s just my metabolism—”

You held up a hand, “I know, I know. Just giving you shit.” You turned around and began to rummage through cupboards at random, “Let’s just see what ingredients we actually have to work with first, huh?”

Making the pancakes, sausage, eggs, and hashbrowns was equal parts routine, frustrating, and amusing as you let the steady repetitive actions of mixing, cracking and beating, and sneaking bites mingle with Bucky’s less than satisfactory status report on Steve and the team while he hopelessly tried to help with flipping the pancakes that now looked more like amoebas than circular cakes.

The gist that you got from Bucky as you bit your tongue and did your damnedest not to ‘shoot the messenger’ was that most of the team would likely begin showing up in a few hours’ time for the ceremony. However, Tony, who would be the ‘headliner’ because the supposed planned absence of Captain America, whom everyone in the press still believe to be in ICU, would likely not be arriving until well after the dedication had begun. And, of course, neither would Steve or Banner for that matter. 

The rest of the team would need to stall for time and draw out their speeches to give Steve, Tony, and Banner enough time to get back. And you would need to make yet another viscerally painful call to Joyce and her team to explain that Tony Stark and Dr. Banner would be running late. You just hoped that hinting at Captain America’s probable appearance would help to soften her steadily growing irritation with the Avengers, which, as their publicist, you were on the receiving end of. You were almost surprised that your knees weren’t sore from all the genuflecting you’d had to do in the last week to appease Joyce for the sake of the Avengers. You also marveled at the fact that for a bunch of world-saving superheroes, they were really quite helpless in their day-to-day responsibilities.

The only positive aspect of the rather chaotic end to this week-long debacle was that no matter how ridiculous and difficult the next few hours would be, if you kept your cool, Tony would probably give you one hell of a bonus and a raise in addition to that goddamn steak dinner. It was nothing less than you deserved. 

Bucky brought you out of your thoughts and internal strategizing with his low voice, “Aside from the shape, these pancakes are really good. You’re a good cook.”

You smirked and rolled your eyes, “I’m an amazing cook, Bucky. Did you see the practiced technique I used to open that box of Bisquick, the way I angled my wrist just perfectly as I poured it into the mixing bowl? Raw talent right there.”

Bucky laughed and rolled his eyes at your bad attempt at humor. You barely heard him mutter under his breath words that you weren’t sure you heard correctly, “Match made in heaven.”

Your heart twitched in your chest, “Say what now?”

He looked up with a strange glint in his eyes, “I said that hash browns are heaven.”

You heart stuttered again as you gave him a small smile, “Again, my ability to open frozen food packages is astounding.” You must have misheard him the first time. 

You and he spent the rest of breakfast enjoyably abusing Tony’s facial hair and love for the limelight. It was all in good fun, of course, but it was nice to let some of the tension of the week out on Tony mostly because his extravagant behavior made him such an easy target.

You and he put the still overflowing plates and pans of food in the fridge for the rest of the team before heading back your respective rooms to shower and get ready for the ceremony.

You really didn’t need to shower, having taken one the night before, but the promise of catharsis under the steaming water in that fancy marble stall was too tempting. You stretched a shower cap over your head and stepped under the gently falling rain style shower head. 

Between the bubbling anxiety you were feeling about the hellish day you were about to start and the still very raw feelings with regards to Steve, you couldn’t help the single hiccupping sob that escaped your lips. You leaned your forehead forward to rest on the cool marble wall as the water cascaded down your very tense back. Every bone in your body felt fatigued and sore in some way or another. You sighed wearily as you reached up to massage away some of the anxiety pooling in your shoulders before you finally decided it was time to get out and face the day.

* * *

You were finishing up another tense and awkward conversation with Joyce behind a bouquet of flowers at the end of the small photo op area on the Smithsonian mall where the team, minus Tony, Banner, and Steve, were all being assaulted by flash bulbs and microphones. 

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” you were trying to be diplomatic with her, but also firm in your stance, “Mr. Stark will have to be late end of story. My hands are tied. It’s not like I can actually tell him what to do.”

Joyce, tangled a few fingers into her gray curls with irritation, “I still cannot see how a problem Mr. Stark’s chestpiece arc reactor would cause a delay for Dr. Banner or speed up Captain Rogers’ recovery, but I suppose there’s quite a few things that you’re not telling me.” She squared you with a suspicious stare.

You looked at her understandingly, gulping away the anxiety at your blatant lie. You could easily empathize with her position because it almost perfectly matched yours, “Like I said; my hands are tied.” 

She sighed in resignation, “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to play it by ear then, won’t we?”

You nodded your head and tried to sound reassuring, “Well at least, Sargent Barnes and Ms. Maximoff will be speaking to help buffer these delays.” You couldn’t help the small shake of your head as you said their names with such formality.

Before you knew it, the morning flashing by in a blur, you were standing up from your seat on the stage on the far left, trying to ignore the uncomfortable cramping and fluttering in your gut as you made your way to the podium to introduce each of the Avengers to the large crowd seated on the grassy lawn. Your knees felt weak, and you could feel your face twitching under the strain of the prolonged forced smile. Staring down a mic stand that had at least fifteen microphones and several portable recording devices, you were trying your best to remain calm and collected. 

Like you had told Steve just over a week ago, public speaking was not a big deal to you, mostly because you were just too apathetic about people to get scared about speaking in front of them. But today, you were anything but apathetic. Your skin felt uncomfortably hot and dry despite the chill of the overcast morning, and you could feel an ache spreading down from your forehead to the base of your neck and into every joint in your shoulders and back. You were beyond nervous about how badly this whole dedication could go.

You cleared your throat quietly as you adjusted a few of the mics to your height. You focused your eyes on the small transparent teleprompter in front of you. “Hello, everyone. My name is Ms. Y/N Y/LN, and today I have the special honor of introducing some our world’s most celebrated heroes.” You read the words as your speech scrolled across the glass planes, “Now before I begin lavishing praise on the Avengers with bombastic platitudes, I think it would behoove me to remind you all of something that I think we are all too eager to ignore.”

You felt like this would be the moment in the movie when the protagonist gave such a heartfelt speech that the crowd would be moved to tears before someone would stand and initiate the slow clap. You bit back the wave of hysteria that washed over you at such an absurd thought as you continued.

“We like to imagine that these heroes are more than just people. It affects how we describe them even: _super_ heroes. But they’re not always super. In fact, they’re quite simply just people, ordinary people who happen to do extraordinary things. It’s easy to imagine them as something larger than life, putting them on a pedestal the way we might with gods and goddesses. It’s a lot harder for us to admit that deep down they’re not all that dissimilar from you and me. Now some may see that as me diminishing their worth, trying to knock them down a peg. After all it removes some of that epic mystery they have when you find out that Falcon tells wildly stupid jokes, that Hawkeye is as pathetically addicted to caffeine as the rest of us, or that the Scarlet Witch snores really loudly when she sleeps on an airplane.

“But I’d like to think of it a little differently. It also means that if superheroes can be subject to human frailties and shortcomings as much as the rest of us, then we truly and utterly ordinary people may also have the capacity to be heroes in our own right. I recently had a conversation with someone about just that. He was concerned that he was not big enough, strong enough, or great enough to ever make a difference in the world. That he was too small to ever be a hero. I won’t repeat now what I said then, but I will if you’ll permit me, recite a movie quote from an elven queen: ‘Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.’

“You don’t have to be an enhanced or a trained spy to make a difference. You don’t need a heart of gold or of arc reactor technology to be a hero. You don’t need an overwhelming sense of patriotism or altruism to be a hero. You don’t even have to enjoy helping people to be a hero. Hell, sometimes the most heroic thing you can do is to just get out of bed every morning and do your best for yourself, your friends, or your family. 

“While we are about to honor these great heroes, who have undoubtedly saved all of our lives in some way or another, I want you all to remember that we are all heroes in own way. That we all have the capacity to make a difference in our lives and the lives of those around us. 

“So with that, I would now like to invite each of you to join me in applause, not just for the Avengers, but also for yourselves.” 

You began clapping and spared a glance over at the team, who were looking at you reassuringly as they joined in on the applause.

One by one, you introduced each of the Avengers who all gave their speeches at increasingly slower and slower paces, all in a futile attempt to stall for time. Soon enough, however, they all finished with their speeches. 

As Sam read the final few sentences of his speech on the teleprompter, he looked over at you worriedly while the audience clapped thunderously in the background. You felt a sickening chill run up your spine. You could do this. You just had to get up in front of everyone again and tell them all that Iron Man, the Hulk, and Captain America couldn’t make it today. Easy peasy.

You shuffled up to the mic stand as the audience fell silent again, the only sounds being the occasional cough or sneeze and the gentle blowing of the wind. 

You cleared your throat and tried to swallow your rising anxiety as you stood almost frozen. The words on the teleprompter hadn’t been changed, and it was scrolling through the introduction you had prepared for Dr. Banner, who was still absent. Shitshitshit, what were you supposed to say? You could hear a few people behind you on the stage clear their throats or cough uncomfortably as you continued to stand there silently looking out at the crowd of hundreds with wide eyes.

You cleared your throat again and lowered your face to the mics a little, “Well, these have been some heckin fine speeches today,” you suppressed a grimace at the absurdity of your own words. Heckin? Really? “Now would be the time when you would hear from Dr. Banner, Tony Stark, and Captain Rogers, but, uhm, they’re, well,” you were babbling now, “They’re not here today. They’re uhm, uhh, remember what I said about heroes being just like you and me? I know I’ve been late to things before plenty of times. Only human, right.” You laughed nervously. You were feeling faint and dizzy.

Then you saw Joyce speed walking over to the sound system booth where the teleprompter computers were, and after a few more uncomfortable moments of silence, you saw new words begin to scroll across the glass as you read, “Ok, if you will all bear with us, we’d like to move on in the program. We invite you now to listen to the United States Army Band perform a medley of John Philip Sousa’s marches. Thank you.”

And just like that, you turned on your heel and made your way back to your seat, promptly burying your face in your hands as you took your seat next to Vision.

You felt him lean down as he said over the beginning notes of the band, “That was a wonderful addition to your speech just now.”

You looked up from your palms and saw that he really wasn’t being sarcastic as he looked at your approvingly. You were torn between laughing and crying. 

Sam turned around in his seat and gave you the biggest smug smile, “Nice save there, champ.”

“Suck my dick, Sam,” you muttered, painfully swallowing at a lump in your throat. You still felt unbelievably hot and your headache was only getting worse with your steadily rising blood pressure from all this stress.

Sam laughed and shook his head before turning around. 

You weren’t really listening to the music. You were just sitting numbly in your chair, anticipating how today’s public speaking fiasco would no doubt haunt you the rest of your life and beyond to the grave.

The thundering applause of the audience when the band finished playing brought you back to attention. Luckily, it you were done with your speaking and introductions, so you sat back in your chair and just waited for the damned ceremony to end already.

As the applause died down, there remained a distant thundering sound. People in the audience looked around for the source of the sound, some looking up to the cloudy sky for any hints of rain or lightning. Then you saw several people pointing behind you. Everyone on stage turned in their seats to see what was causing the growing din of sound that had caught the attention of the audience. You almost laughed in relief. Iron Man.

Tony, true to the same flamboyant nature you and Bucky had mocked over pancakes earlier that morning, circled the mall twice before landing directly behind the podium, his arms stretched out to the sides in a veritable Jesus pose as the audience clapped uproariously.

“Did you all really think that Iron Man wasn’t coming today?” He began as stepped out of his suit and up the mics.

You were aware that Tony was talking with his confident bravado and making up for all the delays and awkwardness that his absence had caused. But it quickly faded into white noise as you looked across the stage and saw him. Right behind Dr. Banner coming up the short steps behind a curtain was Steve. You felt the air leave your lungs and a burning current jolted through your veins. 

His broad shoulders towered over Banner. His dress shirt was taught around his chest and thick arms. His chiseled jaw was graced with an amused grin as he looked at Tony showering himself with accolades in his ironically self-deprecating manner. Even from such a distance, you could see his eyes shining familiarly from under his dark thick lashes. 

Your skin felt so hot, and you thought it must have been because Steve might as well have been emanating the light of a hundred suns. But then a breeze hit you, and despite your heated core, it sent a chill straight through you as you came to a realization. Hot dry skin, sore joints, headache, sore throat. 

You stood from your seat as discreetly as possible, ducking down on your way over the small set of stairs behind your row of seats. And had you not been so focused on keeping your body low and crouched, you might have seen how the movement immediately caught Steve’s attention, might have seen the way his eyes followed you off the stage. And if you’d had super powered hearing, you might have heard the jumpy beating of his heart. 

You walked on unsteady feet over to the small first aid tent to the side of the stage.

The nurse pulled the thermometer from under your tongue, removing the plastic germ guard, “Yep, you’ve got a fever of 102.6. There’s been a nasty flu going around, so my bet is that’s what you’ve got.” He reached into one of his many insulated bags, pulling out a bottle of water for you. “We don’t have any flu tests here in the tent, but I can recommend a few local medical clinics with Sunday hours that are nearby.”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.” 

As he scribbled on one of the tourist maps on the table, he continued, “Just keep drinking lots of water or herbal tea, and don’t take any medicine until you’ve seen a doctor. Otherwise, your temperature might not be accurate.”

You smiled at him, taking the map, “Will do. Thanks for your help.”

You could hear Dr. Banner’s nervous tone echoing from the speakers as you pulled out your phone and hailed a cab. Sending a quick text to Natasha, telling her about your fever and giving her the address of the medical clinic, you sank into the seat of the cab, breathing into the cuff of your cardigan in a futile attempt to save the cab driver from catching whatever you had.

* * *

Just over two hours later, you were meeting Happy in one of his standard issue black SUVs outside the clinic, with a pack of flu meds in your purse. 

The doctor’s visit had taken such a long time because of the long line to see a doctor and then the long wait for your prescription. Nothing like getting sick on a weekend when regular doctor’s offices are closed.

As was usual, very little was said between the two of you. You lay your head down on the cushioned center armrest as he drove to the airport. The others would be arriving for the return flight in a few hours, but it was agreed that you should just wait in one of the private airport lounges and rest while the others finished up at the ceremony and packed up the hotel, including your suitcase.

Even as your increasingly fever addled mind began to lose coherent thought as you began to doze off in one of the cushy airport lounge chairs listening to soft music, you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed and irritated about the whole situation. You knew you were sick because you had been burning the candle at both ends for the last ten or so days, the anxiety from Friday’s party only adding to your stress. And now here you were looking sick and pathetic next to a bunch of heroes—god, you were starting to hate that sappy fucking speech you wrote—who routinely got the shit beaten out of them on missions without missing a stroke. Ugh, to be so woefully ordinary in the presence of the extraordinary.

You don’t know when you fell asleep or how long you’d been out, but as you slowly woke to the low hum of the jet engines you could remember being vaguely aware of hushed voices, a warm pair of arms picking you up, and the light spicy scent of cologne enveloping you.

As you blinked awake, you were hit with a wave of body aches, a dull pounding in your head, and general feelings of malaise. But your eyes very quickly were landed on a pair of silky blue ones. 

“Hey there,” Steve whispered gently with a look of sympathetic concern from his seat next to you.

“Steve,” your voice was raspy and sore, “You shouldn’t be sitting so close. Might get sick.”

He smiled and shook his head, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that’s not really an issue anymore.” And he sat back, gesturing to newly regained super-soldier’s body. 

You let out a bitter hushed laugh. Had you not been sick at the moment and had Friday night never happened, you might have been stunned by him. He was tall, ridged with muscles, and remarkably handsome again, but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered to you at the moment. 

Was it selfish to not feel excited that the world would be a safer place again with the return of Captain America? Maybe. But the truth was that you would have loved him and cherished him in either form. And that was what was so tragic about it all. In neither form would he love or cherish you.

He would go off and find that mystery woman and sweep her off her feet, and you would go home to tend to your fever for the next few days. He would go back to being a real hero, and you would go back to writing press releases and avoiding small talk with your coworkers in the break room.

The pain you felt must have been evident on your face because Steve soon reached down into a bag to retrieve some aspirin and a bottle of water for you, “Here, take these, and I’ll go get some hot water for tea if you’d like.”

You faked your best smile for Steve as you mumbled, “Water’s fine. Thanks.”

Steve gave you another sympathetic smile, “Okay, well, we’ll be landing soon anyway.”

You and he sat in silence, you drinking water and feeling miserable for a variety of reasons and him sketching quietly in his lap, the sketchbook tilted just enough that you couldn’t see it.

Maybe it was the exhaustion from the flu or maybe it was the aching in your chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to make conversation with him or anyone as the plane landed and you made your way to your waiting cab. Giving Steve and the others a lame wave goodbye.

Tony jogged over to the cab while the driver was loading your suitcase in the trunk, giving the driver a wad of cash to cover your fare and a generous tip. 

“Y/N, sorry for making fun of your appearance yesterday. Clearly that was a warning sign.” He looked at you with extreme concern.

You grinned at his drawn brows, “It’s just the flu, Tony. Not the plague. But thank you for your concern.”

He pressed his lips into a small smile, “Take the week off. You’ve earned it, and since you’ll be too sick to enjoy it, take next week off while you’re at it, yeah?”

“Tony,” you began skeptically.

“Dammit, Y/N,” he huffed. “I’m your boss, and these are my orders, got it?” 

He flashed you a smile, which you returned with exasperation. 

“Two weeks of sitting on ass? Sure thing.” You laughed through your feverish haze, “Also, don’t forget about the steakhouse.”

Tony rolled his eyes, “Alright get the hell out of here.” He closed the door for you, and the cab pulled away. 

You couldn’t help yourself as you turned in your seat and looked out the back window, catching one final glance at Steve. You were so focused on taking in his large form that you almost missed him looking back at you. But before you could wave or otherwise respond, the cab pulled around a corner and out of sight. 

Two weeks off. You sank into your seat. Two weeks without seeing Steve. This would either be very painful or very beneficial for your currently fragile emotions. Maybe equal parts of both. You sighed and let your head roll back, closing your eyes as the gentle movement of the car lulled you asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at these two fools! I promise they’re going to make out soon…..ish? Ahaha, hang in there yall!


	11. In Which You Perfect the Art of Ghosting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You use the flu and your vacation as a way to dodge the Steve and your hopeful feelings. You don’t mean to ghost him, but then again, you are good at avoiding things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually almost a normal length! How about that!?

You washed down your antiviral pill and Nyquil with the last few tepid sips of what must have been your hundredth cup of Echinacea tea before laying back onto your couch, spreading out your limbs lazily as you started _His Girl Friday_ for the eighth time since you’d gotten home Sunday evening. 

Three days of the flu, three days of moping, and three days of cuddling Douglass even when he struggled against your embraces had done little to alleviate your body aches and heartache, but it was slowly getting better. Douglass, however, was avoiding you and your needy hugs, currently sitting in the comically large Amazon box that had delivered your new copies of _Saboteur_ and _His Girl Friday_ while you had been in D.C. 

Those first three days had flown by, thanks in part to your liberal self-administration of antihistamines to help you sleep through both the illness and the still fresh heartache. You sighed, your breath rattling uncomfortably in your chest. Only eleven more days left in your impromptu vacation. It was bittersweet seeing your break go by so quickly. The time off and away from the office was nice. But then there was Steve. You were as apprehensive about seeing him at the end of the two weeks as you were anxious. You knew seeing him would just undo any self-healing you might accomplish from being away from him to process your feelings. But at the same time, you also just really wanted to see him. Eleven days. Too little but also too much.

You pushed those thoughts out of your head as you focused back on the movie. Your mind was sluggish, but you could almost speak along with the fast paced dialogue of the movie, mostly because of the nearly endless loop you’d been playing it on the past few days.

 _“Well, well. How long is it?”_ Came Cary Grant’s rich transatlantic accent, starting the rapid back and forth dialogue with Rosalind Russell.

_“How long is what?”_

_“You know what. How long is it since we've seen each other?”_

_“Well, let's see. I spent six weeks in Reno, then Bermuda. About four months, I guess. Seems like yesterday to me.”_

_“Maybe it was yesterday, Hildy. Been seeing me in your dreams?”_

You snorted bitterly. Steve had been stealing cameos and starring roles alike in your dreams, both waking and sleeping, since that whole god-forsaken nightmare of the serums had begun. You shook it off, pulled your throw blanket tighter around your shoulders, and watched the movie with the same longing as you had done so many times already.

Just over an hour later as the movie came to a close, you did your best to ignore the tear threatening to break loose from your eyelid as you watched Hildy crying through the realization that the love she had thought had slipped through her fingers had never once faltered, that Walter really did love her still.

_“Oh Honey. Honey, don't cry, please. Oh come on, I didn't mean to make you cry. What’s the matter with you? You never cried before. Hildy?”_

You hardly ever cried either, not until lately at any rate, but you didn’t have a steadfast Walter to come pat you on the shoulders. The tear edged closer to the rim of your eyelid.

_“I thought you were really sending me away with Bruce. I didn't know you had him locked up. I thought you were on the level, for once. That you were just standing by and letting me go off with him and not doing a thing about it.”_

Even though Hildy was describing Walter’s worst traits, she spoke with such sad but relieved affection that the tear finally slipped out and rolled gently down your cheek.

_“Come on, honey. What did you think I was, a chump?”_

_“I thought you didn't love me.”_

_“What were you thinking with?”_

The last few minutes of the film rolled by as you continued to self-consciously wallow in self-pity. You clicked off the TV as soon as the credit began to roll. What you wouldn’t have given to have Steve burst through your doors, sweep you up like Walter swept up Hildy, and tell you that it was you, that it had always been you, and how could you have been so silly as to have thought otherwise? But even in such a fit of feelings as this, you knew it was stupid to dwell on things that would never happen.

You groaned and got up from the couch to go reheat your last helping of soup for dinner.

Douglass was now sleeping in the box, leaving only the tip of his tail draping lazily out of one of the flaps. Another dumb, masochistic thought sprung into your mind. Douglass curled up on Steve’s tiny legs, purring softly and contentedly. A perfect evening with a man whom you thought could love you. Ughh. Why did you have to think of things like that?

The truth was that you knew you could have Steve over here in less than half an hour to hold Douglass on his lap and you in the palm of his hand. All it would take would be one text message. Your mind drifted back to the short conversation you’d had two days ago on Monday mid-afternoon as you idly stirred at the saucepan on the stove.

* * *

_“Hey, Steve,” your throat croaked into the phone, grateful that it had covered the shaking in your voice at his unexpected call._

_“Hey, there sickie” you could almost hear him smiling through the line._

_“What’s up? Don’t tell me Tony needs me to come in. He knows how sick I am.” You were certain that was not the reason Steve was calling, but deflecting came second nature to you, especially lately._

_“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that you told me to call ahead next time I wanted to come over or I’d be greeted with pepper spray, so,” he paused as you waited breathlessly, “This is me calling ahead. Can come over with some soup and a couple home remedies?”_

_Your mind seemed to need a hard reset as you gently slapped yourself on the cheek. Friend. He himself had called you his friend, just a friend. This was what friends did, right? Comfort each other when they’re sick. Yeah, ‘course. Just a friendly check up… but not one you were prepared to accept for a variety of reasons, your recent proclivity for futile hope notwithstanding._

_“Oh, Steve,” you sighed into the phone. “You can’t come over here. You’ll just get sick, and then all the Avengers will get sick, and it’ll be the apocalypse as we know it with all of our heroes out of commission.” Truthfully, it was the thought of seeing him that twisted your insides, not the thought of spreading the flu. And the thought of him seeing you sick and looking like a mess would just be insult to injury._

_He chuckled softly on the other end, “You know I can’t get sick, nor can I carry it back to the others. Besides, do you really think I’d let a few sniffles let me allow the apocalypse to happen?”_

_“Smartass,” you smiled anyway._

_He chuckled, probably more at himself than you, “So what do you say? No one knows the flu better than me, trust me on that, and even Sam says my soup recipe is marginally edible, and you know how picky he can be sometimes.”_

_“Well in that case!” You exclaimed sarcastically, regretting when it made your lungs ache and itch from the exertion, “But seriously, I look like shit and I probably have sick person breath, and I don’t really think you want to be subjected to that.” You were hoping that he would get the hint that you were telling him ‘no’ gently, but you weren’t sure it was really coming across._

_“Ahw, c’mon,” you could hear the puppy eyes he was giving you in his voice, “You know I wouldn’t care about that. Just chew some mints. Besides, you still need to show me the rest of the_ Jurassic Park _movies.”_

_You felt yourself wanting to say yes, to let him come over, to relive that night when you finally truly realized your feelings for him, to fool yourself for just a few minutes that you were wrong, that Natasha was right, that Steve really did like you as more than just his friend…_

_But then_ She _suddenly backhand slapped you out of those thoughts._

_“Aw, Steve,” were you saying his name too much? Regardless, it was honesty time, well, at least partial truth time. “It’s sweet of you, but I‘m not much for company when I’m sick. I think I just want to go drink a full bottle of Nyquil and come out of my coma in a few days fully healed.”_

_There was the briefest of pauses before Steve sighed quietly and responded, sounding truly disappointed, “Well, okay. I won’t push you. But I really do know all the tricks for coping with the flu, believe me, and I can be over in less than thirty minutes. All you need to do is text me, and I’ll come over. Got it?”_

_You were touched by his concern as you said with genuine gratitude, “Thanks, Steve. I really appreciate it. Truly.”_

_Another pause, “Okay, well, go lay down and take it easy, yeah?”_

_You smiled, not able to help yourself, “I will.”_

_“And drink lots of liquids.”_

_“Okay, mom. Thank you.”_

_You heard Steve snort, “Now who’s the smartass?”_

_“I’m hanging up now. Bye.”_

_“Take care, Y/N.”_

_You set the phone down with a pained smile and hit play on your DVD remote, picking up where you left off on your second viewing of_ His Girl Friday _. Did you feel a little silly watching twice in row? Perhaps, but at least it was keeping you from breaking down and asking Steve over._

_But as the movie played on, you couldn’t help your mind from wandering as you mulled over Steve’s call. You knew you were just his friend. He’d said so himself before telling you about Her, but you weren’t an idiot. Bringing over homemade soup was something reserved for best friendships. At best, you and Steve were just beginning to move past the ‘work friends’ stage._

_You shook your head to rid yourself of those kinds of thoughts, regretting it slightly when your fevered head went dizzy for a second. Backing up the disc a few minutes and resuming what would become a marathon viewing, you settled in for the afternoon._

_Not twenty minutes had passed when your phone buzzed with a text._

> _**Steeeve:** Look out your window._

_What? What kind of cryptic shit...? Nah, you decided to save the musings for Steve, so you typed back exactly that._

> _**You:** Steve. What kind of cryptic-ass bull shit?_

_He texted back almost immediately._

> _**Steeeve:** Just do it, jeez. Also, that’ll be $2 for the swear jar._

_You smiled as you typed your response on your way to your window._

> _**You:** When did you get a swear jar? Can’t you pretend you’re not a fucking grandpa for even one second?_

_You pulled back your curtain and almost had a heart attack right then and there. Down below and across the street, you could see Steve leaning against his motorcycle, looking up at you in your fourth-floor window with a very smug smile, looking more like a fifties greaser than America’s golden boy._

_You gave him a small, confused wave. He gave one right back, wiggling his fingers teasingly. He looked down at his phone as your text finally went through, and even though you had to squint, you could see his shoulders hunch into a small laugh as he typed back._

> _**Steeeve:** That’ll be another dollar for the jar. By the way, this is me not coming up to see you._

_You flipped him off, and he pretended to dodge the gesture._

> _**You:** Yeah, not sure that’s really in the spirit of it all, but hey, why would I expect anything else from the likes of you?_
> 
> _**Steeeve:** The likes of me? _
> 
> _**You:** Smug jackasses._
> 
> _**Steeeve:** Ha. I earned that, but I had to come over. How else was I supposed to get that soup to you? I made way too much, and Bucky won’t touch it._

_You looked up and could barely make out his increasingly self-satisfied demeanor just as you were sure he could see your increasing bewilderment._

> _**Steeeve:** Go look at your doorstep. I promise I’m not standing there._

_You backed away from the window and, as soon as you were out of sight, sprinted as fast as your feverish and aching body would allow, wrenching your door open with a little too much might._

_There on your doorstep was a small insulated bag. You unzipped it, and pulled out a large plastic container of brothy chicken noodle soup. Cracking the lip open just a hair, you could smell the rich homey flavors, and your mouth watered._

_But when you felt your phone buzz in your pocket followed by the low rumble of motorcycle revving up, you snapped the lid shut and hurried back inside, soup in hand, and back to your window._

_Steve was on his bike, hands on his handlebars, still looking up at your window. When he saw you staring dumbly at him, he pulled out his phone and gave it a little wave to you as if to get you to read his text._

> _**Steeeve:** Bon appétit. Also, don’t drink a whole bottle of Nyquil. It tastes awful and take it from someone who knows, comas aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.   
>  Remember, one text and I’ll come._

_You were about to sass him back with another text, but the sound of his motorcycle revving again pulled you away from your phone again. You watched him as he waved before pulling out and driving down the street._

* * *

You inhaled the aromatic steam as you sat down with your bowl and savored the last serving of his soup. Part of you wanted to text him and ask for more, but the other, saner part of you knew you were on the mend and could cook for yourself. And on top of that, the thought of calling Steve and asking for more soup was mortifying. 

So you stayed there eating your soup and willfully ignoring the fact that most friend-friends didn’t drive soup over from Manhattan to Queens just so that they could text you a few times through a window from the street…Nope, not today, Satan. You would not go down that thought train again. Getting burned once was one time too many. You would be playing it safe from here on out.

* * *

By the time the weekend rolled around, you were finally starting to feel almost human again and had even taken a couple walks, just to get the blood pumping. You were also starting to get restless and bored from being cooped up in your apartment all day, weary with watching the same two movies over and over again, but also unable to find the ability to watch anything new.

You had emailed Tony about coming back to work on Monday in an attempt to get out of these doldrums, to which he responded that he would rig your desk with multiple glitter bombs that would not be removed until the following week, and that you could come back to work at your own peril. You had sighed and laughed at your eccentric boss, wondering how he of all people could be seen as the somber founder of the Avengers by the media and the people who consumed it. Founder he may be, but somber? You knew better: glitter bombs. 

Tony also added that he’d made your reservation at Peter Luger Steakhouse for that Friday evening, saying that you needed to wear the same dress you’d worn to the party or something similar. “Black tie, Y/N,” he had admonished. At least you would have the promise of a fancy meal to look forward to. You almost couldn’t believe that Tony was actually humoring your request for a steak dinner, in addition to being grateful that you had the kind of work relationship with your boss that nothing about this seemed untoward to anyone.

The weekend came and went, and the distance between you and both Steve and the whirlwind of the last couple weeks was souring from therapeutic to uncomfortable. Maybe if you had done or said something different at the party, you wouldn’t be feeling like this? Nah, Steve felt the way he felt as did you, and there was nothing you could do to change that. And truthfully, whatever his feelings were, they weren’t really your business anymore; his feelings were between him and his prospective sweetheart, not you. But knowing him, he would probably want to involve you, make it your business, and get more advice from you. And that was too much for you to handle.

So you did what you did best. You avoided him. 

When Steve texted you Sunday, around noon, about borrowing your _Jurassic Park 2_ DVD, you ruefully blew him off, saying that Tony probably had it in his film library and he could just stream it without having to leave the tower. You dreaded the thought of Steve coming over, of him staying to talk and bringing Her up again and seeing his how his face would light up at the thought of Her.

He texted you Monday morning about getting Joyce’s email address from you to apologize about the hell she’d been put through in planning and re-planning the Captain America exhibit dedication. You didn’t respond to the text, but instead just forwarded him her email from your work account with nothing but professional platitudes.

When he texted you early Tuesday evening asking if you’d like to go for a walk—because he had always felt restless after coming down from an illness back in the old days—you politely declined, lying that you needed to run some errands instead. It wasn’t a total fabrication. You really did need to go grocery shopping after a whole week of sitting around sick.

Wednesday, Steve texted, asking if he had accidentally left his iPod charger in his insulated bag when he brought over the soup and if maybe he could come over anyway and get the bag and plasticware back. You told him the charger was nowhere to be found, but not to bother with coming over because you’d bring the bag and container back to him next week at work.

On Thursday, he texted just to ask if you’d like to get some coffee and catch up on the week. No pretense or lame excuses, he simply wanted to see you. You froze up, and ignored the text altogether.

Friday morning, he texted a simple and almost pleading “Hey, Y/N. Just sayin’ hi.” You didn’t even bother opening the text past the preview page.

You felt horrible for blowing him off at every turn when it was obvious that he was just trying to find some excuse to see you, his _friend_. 

The word still tasted bitter to you, even though you knew that it was an exclusive privilege of the highest value to have somehow been given a seat at the same table as the likes of Bucky, Sam, and the rest of the Avengers. You doubted there were very many people who wouldn’t feel blessed by getting to call themselves a friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. 

Nonetheless, you argued, you needed to spend less time with him. The last two weeks were an anomaly in that you had spent a lot of time with him both at work and outside of work. You needed to get used to seeing him only at work and work parties again. Besides, when he finally got the gumption to ask out his sweetheart, there was no doubt in your mind that She would say ‘yes’ immediately and wholeheartedly because, really, who could say ‘no’ to him? And once She and Steve were happily dating, he wouldn’t have time for you outside of work anyway. 

Avoiding him was not ghosting; it was a self-preservation…or at least that’s what you kept repeating to yourself.

These were the circular thoughts that repeated themselves over and over in your mind as you got ready for your Friday night out. Just like that Friday a few weeks ago, you were running your hands over the dark material of your dress, fussing with the fit and making sure that your appearance was to your liking. Since it wasn’t a party, but a dinner with your boss, your make up was neutral and minimal, and you had a nice cardigan over your dress. 

Giving Douglass a few parting pats and checking his water bowl, you walked out of your apartment and headed down to hail a cab. Within fifteen minutes the cab was pulling up to the Brooklyn steakhouse as the “Be Our Guest” food montage ran through your mind with increasing anticipation of the feast you were about to enjoy.

As you stepped up to the hostess station, you took in the interior of the building. The rich wood paneled walls and long wooden bar, to you at any rate, screamed luxury. However, your musings were short lived because as soon as the hostess heard your name, she looked at you like she were starstruck.

“Of course, ma’am. We have your table right this way.” And she led you to a table tucked into the corner, out of the way of the bustle of the restaurant. 

No sooner had you sat down than a waiter came up with a bottle of mineral water, which he poured into your waiting glass. You hadn’t even ordered anything, but they were giving you the royal treatment. Just the perks of getting dinner with Iron Man, you supposed. 

You hadn’t been sitting for even a full minute, when the sommelier came up to your table with a bottle of white wine, showed you the label, much to your bewilderment, and poured you a tasting sip before filling your glass, saying it was compliments of the house and gently tucking it into bucket with ice. As someone who had never paid more than maybe fifteen dollars on a bottle of wine, you felt a bit silly throughout the pomp of the whole scene, but tried to enjoy yourself nonetheless. Royal treatment indeed.

Once you had assured the wait staff that you really were fine and didn’t need anything else while you waited, you peeked down at your watch. Tony was running a few minutes behind. Fashionably late as usual, you mused. At least you had a glass of wine to pass the time.

After a couple more minutes of sipping your wine and looking over the menu, a small commotion near the front of the restaurant pulled you away from the visions of t-bones and tenderloins dancing around your head. Tony must have arrived with his usual fanfare.

But when you looked up, your jaw dropped and your heart leapt into your throat. Instead of seeing Tony’s dark hair and goatee being led to your table, you saw neatly combed blond hair, broad shoulders, and blue eyes. 

What the hell was Steve doing here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never stop torturing yall. Next part, as you might be able to tell by the chapter title (see [my masterlist](https://eufeme.tumblr.com/post/168753951310/even-the-smallest-masterlist)) will be these two weeks from Steve’s POV, because I want to. Then after that…the dinner.


	12. In Which Steve Goes Ghost Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While you are sick on the couch and avoiding Steve, Steve is back at the tower and wondering where to draw the line between being a friend and being a creeper. Oh, and he’s moping, a LOT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be from Steve’s POV. There’s a lil bit of skipping around at the beginning, so hopefully yall can follow. 
> 
> Also, sorry this is late. I waited until the last day of the month to get my state car inspection….and decided to head to Jiffy Lube during the lunch hour….like an absolute fool.

He is plunged into almost complete darkness. He can no longer hear the somber words of encouragement from his friends over the mechanical whirring around him and the low humming of his mind from within. 

Suddenly, he feels himself transported to another time, another place, but one that is eerily the same. The sensation envelopes him. He is in a lab hidden in an antique store on the muddy streets of Brooklyn. But there is no Peggy waiting and worrying on the other side of the metal capsule. 

There is only you, cranky and beautiful and everything-he’s-ever-wanted you. If he squints his eyes, he can almost see your disapproving look, the way you saw right through him in that moment when he left your room last night, before he left to be re-made again. He can feel your gaze burning right through him, looking past his skin and into his very soul. He can feel the way your stare has always burned through him…such a white-hot burning, and stabbing, and stinging, and piercing, and oh my god. Is that the sound of himself? Is that his voice that is screaming?

And then there’s nothing left but the pain. Bones crack and groan with strain, like the bows of an old tall ship crashing against the waves of squall. He can feel the lightning and the salty waves, taste the metallic sting of electricity, smell the musty, exerted odor of himself slowly being unmade and reformed. His skin is too tight. What was that quote you loved? ‘Like butter scraped over too much bread.’ His face stings, like the old familiar astringent burn of antiseptic after rattling off one too many sentences and taking one too many punches from neighbor boys twice his size.

The walls around him seem to grow smaller, closing in on him. Or is it he who is changing size? Is this what it is to be a butterfly? A moth? A cockroach, metamorphosizing inside the confines of its pupal shell? Will he awaken and find himself as Gregor Samsa did? Will you bring him plates of milk until you fade away, ridding yourself of his burdensome care?

The pain subsides, the fevered thoughts slowly sieving away. He can see his mother in the kitchen, sifting flour for bread, tossing the kernels and hulls into the porridge pot so that it would “stick to your ribs, Steven.” He can feel his ribs then in that moment. They do feel sticky, heavy, strong.

And then the chrysalis breaks, and light, bright and burning, floods his eyes more keenly than before. He feels his body now, not frail, not sick, not on the teetering on the verge of another asthmatic fit. He takes a deep breath. It does not burn his lungs or tickle his throat. He takes another relishing in the fullness of his lungs.

He blinks and sees his own hands as if for the first time. They are not bony, nor are they anemic. They are hard and full of vigor.

Once more he realizes he is no longer simply Steve.

* * *

Steve can’t quite recall the first time he saw you. You were, as ashamed as he is to admit this, one of a hundred new faces he saw on a weekly basis, just another employee, another intern, another faceless head in a sea of stimuli. He does, however, remember the first time he heard you speak.

It was a planning meeting for those ridiculous school PSAs he begrudgingly agreed to. Moira, the woman who had been acting as the liaison between the Avengers’ outreach programs and the Department of Education, had suddenly had to take a leave of absense due to a family emergency, leaving you, her lead intern, to act in her stead. 

While running over the scripts with him and Tony, you had let out a stifled snort of laughter and, almost without thinking, said, “Well fuck me. Why not just show Captain America frying an egg, y’know? ‘This is your brain on drugs.’ ”

He could still remember how your amused disapproval had immediately been overtaken by mortification at your own candor that was soon replaced by an uneasy smile as Tony reared back laughing and added his own annotations. Where had Steve been in all this? Stunned, like a minnow that had swum to close to an electric eel, not dead but also not fully alive. Frozen in place and staring like a wide eyed fool. 

It hadn’t been until you finally fixed him with a quizzical quirk of your brow that he finally was able to move his diaphragm again and find his words. They were stuttering and faint, “Or I could throw an egg at a car. ‘This is your brain when it’s not wearing a seatbelt.’ ”

Tony’s smile had almost immediately dropped, replaced by groan as he clutched his stomach in mock pain. But you? Your eyes squinted, your nose wrinkled at the bridge, and your lips seemed to be torn between a smile and grimace as you exclaimed, “These scenarios are getting increasingly violent. Let’s just have you step on an entire dozen of eggs and shout, ‘This is your brain when you give Captain America an anger.’ ”

He remembers your goofy smile, how your hand had casually touched his arm, how he had felt his heart beating with the same wild abandon as it had done in the days of his youth, almost too strong a rhythm for his ribs. The only thought he can remember thinking was a long, drawn out, _Ah, shit…_

But seeing you now, curled in on yourself in the comically large recliner chair of the private airport lounge? He can see a different side to you. It’s a side of yourself that you’ve kept hidden. You don’t look strong or sarcastic. You seem brittle, your skin looks waxy, and your brow is furrowed as you struggle, even unconsciously, to find a comfortable position. The miniscule beads of perspiration on your brow, your upper lip, and along your hairline are the only evidence of your fever as you fitfully try to find peace, try to find genuine rest. He remembers how the flu could make the body feel weak, aching, and unbearable to inhabit. His heart clenches for you.

He couldn’t help but wonder in that moment if this is how you’ve seen him for the last nine days. But had you looked on him with pity or that weird heart pounding and breath stealing awe with which he looked on you now?

Bucky’s metal elbow suddenly punched at his ribs, forcing him to tear his gaze from you and his mind from its reverie. Bucky chuckled, shaking his head, that smug smile still playing at his lips as it had done for so many weeks and months.

“Quit drooling or everyone will find out you’ve got heart eyes for her because they definitely have no idea yet,” Bucky muttered lowly, humor and sarcasm lacing his words.

“I’m not drooling,” Steve rolled his eyes, “Also, quit trying to speak in emojis.”

“I thought it was inspired. But just in case you didn’t pick up on my sarcasm there, pal, everyone knows.”

Steve’s eyes shot up to Bucky’s. He was well aware that he’d done a poor job of playing it cool and had long suspected that his team suspected his feelings , but _everyone_? 

“Calm down. Let me rephrase; everyone but Y/N,” Bucky said, giving Steve a sly look of amusement. “Just tell her, man. I bet she’d leap into your arms if you even hinted half of what you feel.”

Steve sighed wearily, “You know I can’t do that, Buck. We work together, and she just sees us as friends. The last thing I want to do is to make her feel unsafe or uncomfortable about coming in to just do her job every day, that I might use my position to coerce her into anything. You’ve seen the news; you know what I’m talking about.” Steve leaned forward in his lap, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, come on, Steve. If I’m not mistaken, I’d say she likes you as more than just a friend,” Bucky was trying to sound supportive, but impatience laced his tone.

“But what if you are mistaken? What then? How do I take it back? How do I come to her meetings every week, knowing that my mere presence will make her uncomfortable?” Steve dropped his hands and slouched back into his lounge chair. He was tired of having this conversation with Bucky, “Please, just drop it.”

Bucky didn’t want to drop it. He had seen the way you had looked at Steve during this whole serum affair, the way that no woman did back when they were young and dumb, before the war irrevocably changed both of them in body and mind. Even for all his psychological and memory problems, Bucky could tell that you had seen Steve for who he really was, and he could see the admiration you had tried to hide so fervently. 

But Steve hadn’t seen any of it. He wanted to tell Steve all of this and more, but the receptionist announced that the pilot and co-pilot were ready for them to board. Bucky sighed and took it as a sign. Maybe Steve needed to figure this one out on his own.

Steve stood and looked at your still fitfully sleeping form. He didn’t want to wake you, and neither, it seemed did anyone else.

“C’mon, Prince Phillip. Go scoop her up. But if you try to wake her with a kiss, I’ll have to talk to HR about it,” Tony smirked, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked by. Smug bastard.

Pointedly avoiding looking up and around, lest his eyes meet with another smirking teammate, Steve stooped down and, as gently as he could, wove one of his arms under your shoulder and the other just under your knees. He couldn’t help but feel guilty for enjoying this moment so much, the soothing weight of you in his arms, the feeling of your cheek against his chest, your fingers feebly clutching at the hem of shirt sleeve, the warm scent of your hair wafting up…

He set you down in a seat that someone had already reclined. He reached around you to buckle you in before a wave of boldness had him settling into the seat right next to you. After the small plane took off and the turbulence of take-off settled down, he couldn’t fight it any more. He quietly pulled his small sketchpad and a pencil from his bag and let his fingers loose. 

It wasn’t one of his more detailed or realistic sketches, but rather one of loose lines and hurried smudges as he tried to capture this bittersweet moment of you being so near but also so sick before the moment was lost.

He was adding in some finer details to the sketch, when he heard you stirring awake, your breath coming in more natural and uneven breaths as you gently coaxed life back into your limbs. You looked positively miserable as you and he conversed at brief intervals. He wanted to reach out and soothe the wrinkles on your brow, rub your temples, kiss your eyelids…No! He almost shook his head to rid himself of that inappropriate thought.

Before he knew it, he was staring at your retreating face in the window of the cab. You looked back. He marveled about that briefly. You looked back at him.

When he saw Tony sauntering back toward the others, Steve couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Hey, Tony. What was that about? Y/N okay?”

Tony tilted his head and fixed Steve with a discerning look, “She’s fine, Cap. Just giving her a couple weeks off to get better and relax after this shit storm.”

Steve gulped before getting in the waiting SUV. Two weeks? Sure, he’d been on missions longer than that, but in those cases, he was the one away from the tower; he was the one being kept busy by the duties and responsibilities of a mission. But two weeks of doing fuck all back at the tower, going over mission reports and intel? This was going to be painful.

* * *

And as it turned out, his resolve was weak, comically weak. The next day when he woke up, bright and early, ready to face Monday head on, he crumbled slightly. Mondays hadn’t been unpleasant for him for close to a year. Mondays were sweet relief; Mondays were seeing you again after the weekend apart. But today? This Monday? You would not be coming in to your office. There would be lame excuse for him to pull just to come see you or to walk by your office and catch that fleeting glimpse of you hunched over your computer. 

Steve couldn’t keep the moping frown from his face and his gait as he walked into the kitchen for breakfast, heedless of Bucky and Natasha sitting at the table.

Sighing, he poured his coffee. Sighing, he opened the fridge. Sighing, he cracked eggs into the skillet. Sighing, he flipped the slices of bacon. Sighing, he sat down with his coffee and breakfast feast. Sighing, he—

“Steve, if you sigh one more time, I’ll knock the wind right outta ya, and you’ll never be able to sigh again,” Bucky grumbled into his oatmeal.

He looked up dumbly, and saw Bucky’s flat and impatient stare, Natasha stifling her snickering into her hand.

“Steve,” Natasha finally could speak after taking a deep breath, “maybe you should have made chicken soup for breakfast. I hear it’s soothing to the soul.” Steve was so intent on withholding another sigh, that he didn’t catch on to how she was setting him up. But Bucky did, and he shot her an inquisitive look. She just tapped the side of her nose.

Like rusty cogs in an old clock, her words were sinking in. Chicken soup. Soothing. Sick. Soothing you while you were sick…“Nat, that’s perfect!”

Natasha looked at Steve, slightly stunned at first, but as she saw what he was on about, her frown turned into a contented smile. 

Steve leapt from the table to the small tablet on the fridge and quickly put in an order for the ingredients he would need, marking the order as urgent. Okay, maybe ‘urgent’ was a slightly unnecessary note, but he didn’t care. He wolfed down his breakfast, and by the time he was done with his breakfast dishes, a courier had arrived with several large bags of food in hand.

Eschewing his own training schedule, which should have resumed that morning with the return of his strength, he spent the next two hours in the kitchen painstakingly chopping, stirring, and seasoning a recipe he’d been making since the 20s. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve called over his shoulder as he heard his friend walk in with Sam in tow, “Come taste this and see what it’s missing.”

Bucky chuckled as he reached into the fridge for the water pitcher, “You know what, Steve? After eating enough of your stews back in the day, I think I’ll pass on this one.”

Steve clicked his tongue, “C’mon, cut me some slack; you know I did the best I could with a buck-fifty for a food budget. These are quality ingredients.”

Bucky really laughed this time, “The times have changed, Stevie, but your taste buds have not.” He laughed again and sat down at the table with his water.

“Sam?” Steve cautioned. He wanted—no, needed—a second opinion. This soup had to be perfect. Anything less was not good enough for you. “Help me out here?”

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling at Steve and Bucky alike, “I just watched an _Iron Chef_ marathon last night when we got back, so don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

Sam took a sip of the broth, letting the soup roll around on his tongue, taking in all the flavors as he squinted in exaggerated concentration. “Well,” he began seriously, “I think your presentation is quaint, and the flavor profile pastoral.”

Seeing Steve’s cocked brow, Sam’s expression broke into a toothy smile, “Look, it aint bad. Maybe a little more seasoning salt, but seriously, it’s just fine, Steve. Really,” he added genuinely, “Y/N’s gonna love it.”

Steve could feel his ears heat up at the mention of your name, “Thanks, Sam,”  and adding in a louder voice directed to Bucky, “It’s nice to see my friends show me support.” 

A raised metal middle finger was the only response Steve got before he turned back to the stove with a goofy smile, ladling out a large plastic container of soup for you. 

His phone call wasn’t quite what he’d planned, but he was your friend. You were his friend. It was normal for friends to help each other out. Bringing you soup wouldn’t be stepping over any boundaries, right? Sure, you’d said you wanted to be left alone, but he could still bring you soup without bothering you, right?

* * *

Steve took a long way home to the tower. He felt giddy thinking of your shocked smile from your window. He also felt a mite cocky and suave, the way he’d played it so cool, leaning against his motorcycle the way he’d seen leading men in the movies do. Sure, he hadn’t been able to see you, but he felt like Freddy Eynsford-Hill: several stories high just from being on the street where you lived.

He needed to clear his head, and he let the chill breeze flowing through his hair as he sped down the city streets do just that. Had he overstepped? Nah, he’d seen the way you had looked down at him, his keen eyes picking up the way your eyes had crinkled into a genuine smile while texting him. It also shocked him at just how needy he felt all of a sudden.

You and he had had some pretty intense conversations during the whole serum debacle. He had in some small way felt as though he could be more honest, more open with you while his mantle of Captain America, leader of the Avengers, had been stripped from him. But he had also felt woefully inadequate, and if he were being completely truthful with himself, he still did. 

There had been a few fleeting moments when he’d felt that maybe, just maybe he had a chance with you. But those misleading hopes had quickly been purged from his mind. If you had never thought of him as more than a friend when he’d been Captain America, why would that change when he’d been so small and weak? And now that he was Captain America again, the fact that you still looked at him with the same friendly—just friendly—consideration as before stung all the more. 

When he heard the chirp-chirp of a warning siren and saw the red and blue lights in his tiny side mirrors, he was roughly jerked out of his thoughts and back to the present. 

Feeling like a delinquent, a dull pit in his stomach, he pulled to the side of the road and waited while the cop looked up his plates on the database. He could see the woman step out of her car, donning her cap, before she walked up to his bike with a slow but determined step.

“Almost couldn’t believe the computer when I looked you up, but here you are. Steven Rogers himself.” Even though her eyes were obscured by the mirrored sunglasses, he could feel her gaze pierce right through him. 

“Sorry ma’am,” Steve somehow managed to mumble, casting his eyes downward out of equal parts respect and shame.

“Now what would you have to be sorry for? Do you know why I pulled you over?” She asked through a thick Brooklyn accent. 

Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he was at a loss, “I promise I’m not pulling your leg…but no.” His voice made him sound more like small Steve than some great big hero.

She pulled off her sunglasses, looking him in the eyes, “You blew past a stop sign one block back.”

He hunched his shoulders in realization, “Ah. I’m sorry, officer. I guess my mind was elsewhere.”

She let out a long sigh, looking into his eyes, “I can only imagine what’s weighing down Captain America.” She let out another sigh and placed her glasses back on, “Get your head on straight, Captain, watch the road, and consider this an informal warning.”

Steve made to protest her leniency, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, “It wouldn’t look good for my precinct to be giving traffic citations to a global hero. But if you want some advice, whatever’s got you so pre-occupied? You might think about talking with someone about it. Get it off your chest and get you out of your head.” 

With a nod of her head, she turned on her heel and walked back to her patrol car. Giving him a quick honk on her horn as she pulled away, leaving Steve on his bike, feeling even lower somehow. He should have felt happy he hadn’t gotten a ticket. But at the same time, the fact that he had been pulled over for running a stop sign was evidence enough of how many knots his mind was currently in.

He took a few minutes to find some center and clear his head before cautiously pulling out and driving back to the tower with the utmost diligence and care.

* * *

The rest of the week passed slowly, painfully so. He wanted to call or text you and ask how you liked the soup or see if he could bring you some more, but he didn’t. He resisted his need to contact you. You hadn’t texted him, and he took that as a sign to give you space to rest and heal. That’s what friends did, right? Respected each other’s boundaries?

But when Sunday rolled around and he still hadn’t heard from you, he began to wonder if it were okay for friends to seek each other out. And when Tony joked to him and Natasha that he’d had to threaten you with hidden glitter bombs and various other booby traps to keep you from coming into work the next day, Steve couldn’t hold back any longer. If you were well enough that you were begging Tony to come back in to work, then he had to talk to you, see you, be near you. You didn’t need to know that he selfishly savored every moment with you for reasons other than just platonic affection. He could make it the remainder of the week if he could just see you today.

He asked to come over and borrow _Jurassic Park 2_ , hoping that you might invite him to watch it there as you had done that one perfect night when you and he, both stubborn and too tough for common sense jackasses, had allowed each other a few fleeting moments of mutual vulnerability. He had wanted to kiss you then, hook his fingers below your jaw, taste your lips…but then he had remembered how small and bony his fingers were. He had recalled that one time when he was a teenager when he’d tried to kiss one of Hannah Bergman’s freckles behind the bleachers and was met by a polite refusal and soon after her sweetheart’s fist. Her look of pity had stung for more than the punch ever could have. He had said his goodnights and left your apartment feeling wholly inadequate.

You texted him back, reminding him that he could access just about any movie he wanted from Tony’s digital collection, including the _Jurassic Park_ series. Of course. You probably didn’t mean anything by it. It was a perfectly reasonable response. You were saving him a drive into Queens. You didn’t make any conversation, so he didn’t push you and instead gave you some space.

Monday morning his restraint wavered slightly. He really did need Joyce’s contact info. He wanted to email her a quick apology now that the dust had settled, and he also wanted to get her office’s mailing address and send them a gift basket of gourmet coffees and sweets. Sure, it didn’t make the last few weeks suddenly go away, but it would act as an olive branch. And sure, he could have called someone else on your team, but he was sure that if he called Paul, it would not end well. And he didn’t know the others in your office as well as you, so it made sense for him to ask you. And it made sense that you ignored the text and went straight to your work email because that was where you had all of Joyce’s information saved. Trying to contact you on a professional basis had just made him feel more longing, more restlessness. 

Tuesday, Steve dropped any pretense. He really did know better than most how the body wanted exercise after an illness. It was the perfect excuse to see you. Sure, you could go walking on your own any time you wanted, but he made sure to say that company always made walking even better. When you texted back saying that you needed to run all the errands that had been neglected in the last few weeks, he tried not to take it personally. Your time was your own, and it wasn’t your fault that he’d spent the last week and a half moping and pining after a woman he couldn’t ever have; you certainly couldn’t help that that woman was you. 

On Wednesday, he was back to excuses. His iPod charger sat on his desk as he asked you if you had it, and Steve never new that an inanimate object could look so disapproving. Yet there it was, a wad of cords that somehow seemed to be judging him silently. He thought he was maybe crossing a line. 

And when his invitation for coffee a catch-up on Thursday went read but unanswered, he knew that he had. You were letting him down gently. Quietly telling him to back off and give you some peace. 

So, on Friday, he sent you a simple hello to let you know you were in his thoughts but that you didn’t need to do anything with that. The text went unread, and Steve went back to moping, resolving to never bring this up with you in an attempt to salvage and maintain your working relationship and tenuous friendship. That didn’t stop him from mentally chastising himself the better part of the afternoon for having let his emotions control his actions and wishing that he could take back at least a couple of those texts so that it wouldn’t have been totally obvious just how desperate he had been to see you.

Just as he had been unable to draw when he’d known you were down at Tony’s flashy party while he was under house arrest, Steve sat one of the small tables in the library lounge area, staring down at a blank page willing himself to draw something, anything other than you, your eyes, the slope of your shoulders, your wrists.

When a hand clapped him roughly on the shoulder, he almost jumped out his chair. 

“Easy there, Cap. I come in peace,” Tony’s droll voiced sounded from behind him, allowing his rush of adrenaline to focus into a rush of irritation.

“Can’t you see I’m drawing here, Tony,” he growled out with more animosity that he actually felt as Tony came around to face him.

Tony smirked, looking down at the as yet unblemished page, “Oh, nice, very modern. I love how the white of the page really accents the white of the facing page.”

Steve rolled his eyes, his hand gripping at the sides of his notebook somewhat protectively, “What is it that you want exactly?”

Tony scoffed, mirth still glinting in his eyes, “Oh come on. Can’t a guy come shoot the shit with a friend.”

Steve looked at Tony flatly, “You have never come to just talk before. What do you want?”

Tony scoffed again, only louder this time, “Fine. We, the fellow inhabitants of this here tower are tired of seeing you moping around. It was bad enough when you were wallowing in self-pity during the whole hobbit affair. You were small and out of the way then.” 

Steve clicked his tongue in annoyance as Tony continued, “But now that you’re the size of a refrigerator again, you’re kind of hard to ignore, and you’re depressing everyone around you. So, put on a nice suit and tie because I’m initiating Mission Chin Up Cap.” 

Steve eyed him suspiciously, “What are you up to, Tony?”

“What?” Tony asked innocently, “I’m not up to anything other than putting a smile back on your face. Gonna take you to a Brooklyn establishment for a nice steak dinner at Peter Luger.”

Steve’s suspicions grew at that, “Isn’t that where you’re taking Y/N?”

“Yep. Taking her there next week. That’s where I got the idea. Just you and me and plates heaped with sweaty meats,” Tony said, a twinkle in his eyes.

Steve rolled his eyes and reluctantly smiled. A steak dinner did sound nice. “Fine, but before there’s any miscommunication, I need to tell you that I don’t feel that way about you.”

Tony laughed, “Damn, really thought I had a shot with you. Well, take pity on me this one night and whisper sweet lies to me.”

Steve took an exasperated breath, “Okay, you’re beating a dead horse now.”

“I will never let a joke go until it has been completely exhausted. Now, go. Take a shower, comb your hair, and make yourself look pretty,” Tony got up from his seat. “I’ve got to go meet a potential investor in Queens, so I’ll just meet you at the restaurant, ‘kay?”

And with that Tony left Steve sitting there with his blank paper, feeling perplexed on top of everything else. Tony had to have an ulterior motive in taking him to dinner. He suspected it might have something to do with the Smithsonian exhibit as Tony had hinted a couple days ago that they might want to have him come in for yet another interview session. Fine, if Tony wanted to butter him up for that, he wouldn’t stand in the way. 

After ten days of eating like a bird, Steve’s appetite had come back full force with the serum. Who was he to say no to a fancy steak dinner? Plus, maybe he could make a few food recommendations for you when you went next week. It would be a great casual conversation starter, totally friendly and nothing more.

Because he was dressing for dinner with Tony, Steve almost intentionally wore the worst of his wardrobe, donning his pleated khakis that Tony had called his grandpa pants and an old fashioned checked shirt under his worn brown leather jacket. Sure, he looked out of fashion for modern times, but he felt comfortable and would do just about anything to anything to get under Tony’s skin. He did, however, run a comb through his hair.

By the time he made it to the steakhouse, Steve was running a few minutes late. Under any other circumstances, he would have felt awkward and uncomfortable for his tardiness, but this was Tony. And Tony probably would be even later than he was.

A cursory glance around the restaurant as he walked inside confirmed his suspicions: no Tony to be found. He gave his name to the star-struck hostess who shyly asked for a photo before seating him. Even though he was happy to oblige, Steve still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that women found him desirable after half a lifetime of being invisible and having low self-esteem.

As she led him to the back of the restaurant he saw the back of a woman’s head that looked oddly familiar. When the head turned, he felt the blood drain from his face, his heart seeming to still in his chest, as the restaurant faded from his periphery and his gaze locked on you, and only you.

He was going to fucking murder Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buahaha. SORRY NOT SORRY YALL. Hmmm! How will the dinner go? Will Steve confess his undying love you or will he clam up? Find out next week on your scheduled dose of torture.
> 
> Thank you AS AWLAYS for yall's kind words and support. It means the world to me!! <3


	13. In Which You Let Steve Eat...Steak?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling duped by Tony and lost in self-doubts, both you and Steve settle in for a delicious but awkward dinner at Brooklyn’s most famous restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I had a contest with myself to see how obscure I could make some of my pop-culture references…sorry about that. Also, sorry about all the pining and yearning (lol, no I’m not). 
> 
> Also, I’ll have yall know that I’ve had a tab with the Yelp page for Peter Luger’s open for about 4 weeks now. Just closed it. Finally.

If Steve was surprised to see you, he didn’t show it. Though he did look a bit wide-eyed as he navigated between the tables to yours, stealing furtive glances up to you while you stared in open mouthed shock. You’d spent two weeks avoiding him, and now all of a sudden, here he was right in front of you, walking up to you.

An endless string of _what the fucks_ flitted through your mind, leaving little room for any other thoughts. 

Finally, Steve got to the table, taking his seat, eyes still fixed on you, that little crease between his brows prominent. He looked like he was about to say something several times while the waiter poured him a glass of the white wine and read off the daily specials. You didn’t hear a word the young man said, and you were pretty sure neither did Steve with the way he was staring at you in vague puzzlement.

“So any questions?” The waiter asked.

Steve looked up at him blankly as though he forgotten the young man had been standing there before stuttering out, “Uhm, no. We’ll just, uh, mull it all over.” Steve flashed him a polite smile before the waiter walked away leaving you both with nothing but your menus to hide behind. 

Finally finding your voice, you smiled up at him nervously, “What did he say? I didn’t catch a word of it.”

Steve mirrored your nervous smile, “Neither did I.”

You shook your head in amusement, “Ah shit. Guess I’ll just stick to the menu then.”

Steve looked like he was caught between smiling and frowning, “Yeah.” 

You snorted at the awkwardness of your exchange and the brief silence that followed more out of nerves than anything. When Steve looked at you questioningly, you shook your head at yourself, “Sorry, I was just thinking that all we need is a bit more existential angst and for the restaurant to start playing Erik Satie for this to be like _My Dinner With Andre_ , which,” seeing his clueless expression, you added with resignation, “is a very boring movie.”

He smiled and looked down thoughtfully, “But you know I’ll have to watch it anyway now because you know I don’t like missing references, especially yours.”

You felt a deceiving tingle in your chest as you tried to flash him a smile. He didn’t mean anything by that, and if he did, he just meant ‘especially yours’ because you were friends. He had said so himself. Just friends. 

An uncomfortable silence then fell between the two of you as you both tried to look interested in the menus while desperately thinking of something to say.

Finally, Steve’s concentrated pout gave way to his voice as he set his menu down on his small table setting, “So,” a long pause, “Tony…?”

You sighed out a low laugh, “Tony.”

Steve smiled and chuckled, and it was the first time you’d really gotten to see him smile, really smile, since D.C., given that the last two times you seen him you’d been sick and about fifty feet away the second time. And now seeing it up close and personal, you almost lost your breath.

“Did he not tell you I was going to be here?” He asked, eyes still creased in a smile.

You let out a shaky breath, trying your best to wipe your own stupid grin off your face, “Of course not. I’m assuming you weren’t expecting me either, huh?”

He looked down, shaking his head, before looking back to your eyes again. Your chest clenched slightly as you looked at those eyes of his, dark lashes practically brushing the tops of his cheeks when he blinked.

You stood up rather abruptly, causing a flash of concern to flash in Steve’s eyes, which you still could not look away from. “Sorry, need to go to the bathroom.” 

You stumbled the first few steps in your heels but soon found your footing and high tailed it to the bathroom on the opposite side of the restaurant. When you finally had the door locked behind you, you let out a small low groan as you resisted the urge to run over to sink and splash your face with water, which would only ruin your make up. 

What the fuck, Tony?! You were going to kill him, rip him limb from limb. You were pretty sure you could do it too, like those women who lifted trucks off people in the middle of an adrenaline rush from an emergency. 

You’d never known Tony to be intentionally cruel, so what his m.o. here? Why would he lie to you both about the steak house? Did he, like Natasha somehow think Steve liked you? Was he trying to set you both up? Well, too bad, pal, that ship sailed off a long time ago. You clenched your teeth bitterly at the memory of the party.

Finally, taking a long deep breath and holding it, you were able to calm your thoughts down a little. Friends. You and Steve were friends. Friends hang out, friends often eat food together, friends don’t freak out about one another in bathrooms—twice now. You could go eat dinner with your friend. You could ignore your feelings for him for at least one night; they were your problem and not his, and you wouldn’t make this awkward for him. You could do this for a friend. Friend.

Taking a cursory glance at yourself in the mirror to make sure you hadn’t smudged your make up in your worry, you headed back into the dining room and over to Steve’s waiting form.

“Sorry for leaving so abruptly,” you muttered as you took your seat, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

Steve looked up from his menu, smiling politely at you and waving his hand slightly, “Of course.”

You smiled awkwardly before ducking your eyes behind your menu. Although the silence at your table contrasted with lively conversation of the others in the dining room, it was less awkward this time, from your part anyway, because you were now genuinely deciding what to eat, rather than just using the menu as a distraction. That did not, however, keep you from peaking over the top of your menu every now and then to steal glances at him.

You finally settled on the lamb chops, grinning a little at the exorbitant price, even though you knew it was like pocket change to Tony. Still you couldn’t help but take a small measure of delight in spending Tony’s money after the serum ordeal and because of the bombshell—in every metaphorical sense of the word—that he had dropped in front of you tonight at the restaurant.

“What are you thinking about?” Steve asked casually, taking you totally off guard. Seeing the perplexed look on your face, he clarified, “I mean, for food. What are you thinking about getting?”

You sighed in realization, “Oh, I was thinking the lamb chops. You? Probably the ‘steak for two,’ huh?”

He clicked his tongue but grinned, “Don’t be foolish, Y/N. I’m getting steak for four.” He rolled his eyes at his own joke, “Nah, I’m going to get the rib steak partly because it’s the most expensive single serving item on the menu.”

You finally smiled a real smile. You could do this tonight. Just have a good time with a friend. Yep, totally.

The waiter walked over, as some of the tension in the air finally broke after this exchange. 

“Are you ready to order?” He asked politely, his eyes flitting to Steve more than once in amazement.

“Yes,” you smiled up at him, “I believe I’ll have the lamb chops, please, medium rare. And my grandson here will have the rib steak.” You couldn’t keep the mischievous smile off your face as Steve rolled his eyes and the waiter looked at you with no small amount of confusion.

“Right,” the young man muttered as he scribbled on his notepad, “And how would like the steak, Captain.”

Steve held his hand up politely, “Just Steve, and I’ll have it medium rare as well.”

“And any sides for you both today?”

You looked over at Steve cluelessly. You’d been so focused on stealing glances of his jawline and cheekbones over your menu that you’d neglected to go beyond choosing your entrée. Steve stared back blankly.

You looked down to your menu in a rush and began mumbling, “Uhm, we’ll, uh, have the creamed spinach?” You looked at Steve questioningly, who nodded his head, brows still furrowed, “And the broccoli? Uh, the German fried potatoes look good. The shrimp cocktail would be a nice contrast to all the red meat. And the onion rings, and French fries are always a classic, and oh, what would a steak be without a good ol’ baked potato?” You finally looked up from your menu to see the waiter looking between you both desperately. 

“Okay,” he still looked a little concerned, “So that’s the lamb chops medium rare, the rib steak medium rare, the creamed spinach, the broccoli, the German fried potatoes, the shrimp cocktail, the onion rings, the French fries, and the baked potato.” He looked down at his notepad, doing his damnedest to hide his apparent apprehension at such a ridiculous order. “Will that be all?”

You looked at him wide eyed and stunned at the long list of food, but you were as awkward as you were stubborn. You’d be damned if you made a thing out of this by taking back some of the food orders. So you just looked at the waiter and flatly said, “Yes, that will be all.”

There was a pregnant pause between the three of you. “Okay. I’ll have the sommelier bring over a bottle of red wine that Mr. Stark picked out for you both.”

Steve looked like he was fighting a smile as he took a large swig of his wine. “You know, I’m not sure even I can put away that much food.”

You gaped for a moment before responding, voice dangerously high, “I may…have ordered a bit much.” You nodded your head, still looking at Steve flatly.

He stared back as if trying to read you before he finally laughed out loud, his right hand coming up to his chest to brace himself, as you nervously tried to laugh along, not sure what exactly he was laughing at. Shaking his head as he caught his breath, he said, “Y/N, you’re probably the most ridiculous woman I’ve ever met.”

Squinting your eyes at him, you responded, “Thanks, I think?” 

“It’s a compliment; I swear,” he reassured you, still smiling. “You know Tony’s going to be pissed that we’re basically ordering the whole restaurant, right?” 

You rolled your eyes and laughed a little finally, leaning over conspiratorially, “Good, that’s the plan. Now, wanna order two of each dessert?”

“Definitely not,” he responded, a glint in his eyes saying otherwise.

You took a contented sip from your wine. Even though your heart was on the verge of imploding, you were actually starting to genuinely enjoy yourself. It was almost starting to feel like old times with Steve before the whole anti-serum thing made your feelings grow and fully bloom, just you and him goofing off and joking around. You could do this, right? Yeah, you could totally do this.

“So, how’s the tower been without me? Has everyone been moping around desperate for my return?” You asked jokingly, just trying to make conversation.

A glint of something flashed in Steve’s eyes, his brow, the clench of his jaw, but you couldn’t figure it out.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve said, waving his hand absently, “In fact, I’m surprised Tony stood you up tonight, the way he’s been complaining about you being gone.”

You smirked, “Gonna really make him sweat that raise. Anyway, I would have come back, but Tony said he’d rig my desk with glitter bombs or some such nonsense if I tried to leave my vacation.”

“Tony works in mysterious way,” Steve said with an air of wisdom.

Something about Steve’s earlier statement regarding this night finally caught your attention. But before you could talk, the waiter came over leading three servers, each with trays laden with food. By the time they were done setting down the three different types of potatoes and other assorted sides and pouring you each a generous glass of a French red wine you couldn’t pronounce, there was hardly any room left for when your entrées would arrive.

You looked down at the spread with dull shock, wondering if this was how Steve had felt that first morning after he’d been hit with the anti-serum as he sat, staring down the tunnel of far too much food and far too little stomach to match it all. You looked up at Steve, no longer that puny ball of attitude you’d seen, but rather a large one who still wore that same expression from so many day ago.

“I think this might be problematic,” you said flatly.

Steve looked back, one brow tensed, “Well, you were the one who ordered it all, not me, so get to it, champ.”

You snorted through your nose, “I can’t do this alone, sport.” You laced that last word with as much sarcasm as you could muster, hoping that it sounded joking and not just mean.

You and Steve shared a look of camaraderie before folding your napkins on your laps and digging in to the various dishes. And the silence that settled between the two of you this time was one of determined consumption and gorging. Maybe it was a good thing you and he were now firmly in the realm of ‘just friends’ because if this had been a date, you were pretty sure that stuffing your face like Hansel and Gretel who had just found the witch’s house of candy was not exactly the most alluring thing either of you could be doing.

By the time your lamb and his steak arrived, you had to suppress a small groan of defeat. There was no way you’d be able to eat more than just a few bites of the beautifully seared and cooked chops before you’d have to tap out.

You and Steve shared yet another look of solidarity. Even though he was far out pacing you on the amount eaten—he was a super soldier after all—you were both in it together…as friends.

After relishing in the first few bites of your lamb, you, almost on instinct, cut a large piece and reached across the table to put it on Steve’s plate, “Steve, you have got to try this. I’m bustin a nut over here it’s so good.”

Steve almost choked on his bite of steak as he stifled a laugh. Washing his bite down with a generous gulp of his red wine, he laughed softly, “Absolute poetry, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes and jokingly said, “Forgive me, majesty. I am a vulgar woman, but I assure you my lamb is not.” Upon seeing his quizzical look, you clarified, “ _Amadeus_ quote, kind of, it’s a Mozart biopic.” You trailed off seeing him start to laugh softly at you.

“I think I’m gonna, need a diary just for all the movies and TV shows you reference,” he said, reaching down with his fork to retrieve the bite of lamb you left on his plate. His eyes closed slightly as he savored the bite, and your breath seemed to catch in your throat for a second, seeing that look of bliss on his face.

Stuttering as you tried to respond intelligibly, you mumbled out, “Ha, well I, well I’m just trying to catch you up with modern pop-culture.”

He looked at you with a steady expression, “Well, thank you for that and the lamb. Steak?”

You almost forgot how to speak as you gaped at him, “Hmm?” Friends. Friends. Friends.

“Do you want a bite of my steak? It’s only fair,” there was a slight smile tugging at his lips now.

“Yeah, great, good.”

You could practically see the gears grinding in his brain as he cut a small piece of his steak for you, but what it was that was winding him up so, you could hardly guess. You knew exactly what was winding yourself up, however.

Before you could tear your eyes away from his face, he was looking back up at you, and you quickly looked away. Busted. He must have realized you’d been staring because when you looked back up again, you could see a small glint of a smile lighting his eyes. 

He reached across the narrow table and held the fork out for you. Without even thinking you took the fork from him and popped the bite in your mouth. You should have just put the steak on your plate and used your own fork, but you didn’t. And you couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty about eating off his fork either. 

Warmth spread across your cheeks and throat as you handed his fork back and tried to savor the flavor of the steak and not the way he was looking at you with deceptive affection. When he looked back to his plate, you unbuttoned the top few buttons of your cardigan, adjusting the neckline to cool your skin there. Friends. Just friends. 

“God, that’s so good,” you finally managed to speak after sipping at your wine.

Steve smiled agreeably, “Honestly, I’m regretting eating here now.” You looked up at him in confusion as he continued, “I just think that all other food is ruined for me now in comparison.”

“I’d say that soup you made for me might challenge that claim,” you said, smiling at his look of doubt. “No really, it was really good, Steve, and I never even thanked you for it. So, take my praise, please.”

He just shook his head before turning back to his plate, “It was nothing, really. Couldn’t have you starving on top of being sick.”

“Well, thank you for that as well.” You smiled, looking down at your own still piled plate in replete defeat. Still looking down, you couldn’t help ask that one question you still hadn’t voiced, “That reminds me, I was gonna ask you earlier but got distracted by all of, well, this.” You swept your hand over the table. “Why were you planning on getting dinner with Tony? I mean obviously Tony is not here because he’s fucking with us, but why did you agree to it to begin with?”

Steve avoided your gaze, picking at a piece of steak with the tip of his knife. You found his behavior odd but figured his answer would solve it. 

“Well,” he began hesitantly, “Tony noticed I’ve been kind of down lately and wanted to cheer me up. He thought it’d be nice to take me to Peter Luger’s, the one place in Brooklyn that has stayed almost the same as it was back when I lived here, even though I never could have afforded it. So I couldn’t exactly say no to expensive steak, could I?”

You were torn between amusement at Steve’s puppyish muttering and genuine concern. Best to just focus on the latter, “Down? What’s going on? I thought you’d be happy given how things have turned out,” you said as you gestured vaguely at him, knowing he’d know what you meant.

“I am,” he responded quickly before looking down again, “It’s just that, well, it’s not everything, is it?” 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” you hoped you hadn’t offended him.

“I know, I know,” he reassured before continuing, clearly not sure how to put whatever was bothering him to words, “You remember the night of the party?”

You gulped. How could you ever forget that? You nodded your head, not trusting your voice.

“Well, I guess I’m still having the same problem,” he let the sentence hang, looking at you so intensely that you had to look away.

Clearing your throat nervously, you swallowed your pride and determined to be the friend that Steve deserved, “She’s not interested?”

You could see his cheeks dusting with pink even in the low lighting of the restaurant, “Well, I don’t think so.”

You shook your head in disbelief, “You mean you haven’t even talked to her? Steve, come on, this isn’t middle school. You have to actually talk to people if you want anything to ever happen.”

Steve looked at you pleadingly, “I’ve tried, but it’s complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, “Yeah, when is romance not complicated?” You couldn’t help the bitterness creeping into your voice when you knew that Steve needed understanding more than ever.

“We work together.”

The silence between you two was palpable as it sank in. You could see him laughing and talking with Sharon in your mind’s eye. You would not be jealous; you would not hold it against her; you would not become the bitter woman that the male Hollywood directors thought existed; you would help Steve and be a good person. Not even you could be so petty as to allow your jealousy to sabotage someone else’s happiness.

You cleared your throat and took a gulp of wine, “Well, I guess that does complicate things some, but people have office romances all the time.” You shrugged your shoulders, continuing, “What’s the hold up? I mean all you’d have to do is sign some form with HR about it.”

Steve looked at you through his lashes, and even you could see he was feeling absolutely despondent as he spoke, “I mean, it’s not just that. I’m worried that if I talk to her about it and she inevitably turns me down that she’ll feel uncomfortable being around me. I watch the news. The last thing I want to do is make her feel unsafe at work.”

Of course, that’s what Steve would worry about: not being wanted, as comical as that thought was, and doing the wrong thing, not that you would have expected anything less from him. “Well, when you put it that way,” you chewed at your lip to ignore the squeezing in your chest, “Just talk to her. Tell her up front that you in no way want to make her uncomfortable but that you’d like to go out some time and that if she says no, she’ll never hear another word about it from you. There’s not much else you can do to buffer it, but it’s a start.”

Steve looked like he was about to respond, but at that moment your angel of a waiter came over to the table, saving you from having to continue talking about Steve’s love-life. 

“I see you’re slowing down some. Shall I have these boxed up for you?”

Steve’s worry melted into a polite smile, “Thank you, that’d be great.”

Handing you both the dessert menu, he and a couple other servers began to clear away plate after plate of food. 

You stared down at the list of sweets despondently. Steve’s conversation had put a pall on the evening, and nothing sounded better than the comfort of a fresh dessert. But you were so full, you were sure you’d explode like _Monty Python’s_ Mr. Creosote if you ate even one more bite.

Steve must have sensed at least some small part of your quandary as he leant forward in his seat a little, “Two of each, right?”

You smiled despite the sinking feeling in your heart, “I think I’ll die if I even look at a dessert right now.”

He smiled and rolled his eyes, “Okay, but if you had to choose at least one to eat now what would it be?”

You sucked in as deep a breath as your stressed diaphragm would allow, “The key lime pie sounds amazing,” you muttered, “But I really can’t eat any more.” You raised your brows at him to get him to stop.

“Okay,” he smiled coyly.

The waiter came back with two large paper bags of your leftovers, “Alright, now can I interest you both in desserts?”

You were about to respond to the waiter with a groan and a ‘no,’ but Steve beat you to the punch, “We’ll take a slice of key lime pie and an apple strudel to-go please.”

“Steve,” you whined. 

“C’mon, it’s Tony’s dime and I think you and I have had a hell of a month. We both deserve it,” he coaxed. If he hadn’t look so damned earnest, you might have reached across the table and flicked him on the ear.

“Fine,” you huffed. “But when I can’t get my ass outta bed tomorrow morning because of the inevitable food coma, you and I will have words.”

He smiled up at you before pointedly looking away. You found that odd, but your full stomach kept you from dwelling on it any further.

When the waiter came back with your boxed desserts after a few more moments of comfortable silence, both of you lost in your thoughts and the discomfort of your bellies, you suddenly had a horrible thought. How were you supposed to pay for all this without Tony and his credit card here? Steve’s drawn eyebrows seemed to indicate that he was thinking along the same lines.

Luckily the waiter alleviated your anxieties. “Well, Mr. Stark will be picking up the bill, so please stay for as long as you’d like and let me know if I can get either of you anything else.”

Before you could stop yourself, you responded, “You wouldn’t be willing to roll me to the curb in wheelbarrow, would you?” You waved him off when you could see he didn’t know if you were joking, “Just kidding, man. Please ignore me.”

He smiled politely at you both before walking away, leaving you and Steve in the awkward ‘go or don’t go’ limbo.

Fearing that Steve might bring Her up again, you made the call before it got weird, “Well,” you looked at him expectantly, “Shall we away?”

His brows rose in surprise, but he nodded, “Sure thing.” Standing slowly and patting his belly with one hand, he reached down and picked up the two paper bags with the other.

You both walked slowly out of the restaurant. Slowly because of all the handshakes Steve got from the other restaurant patrons, slowly because you felt like a sluggish snake after eating a rat, and slowly because you didn’t want the night to end.

But when you were met by the cold sting of the night breeze on your cheeks you knew it was over. You looked over at Steve, who was fidgeting with the bags in his hands, and looking from you to the ground to you to the sky and so on.

“Okay, Steve, wanna split these boxes up? I call the onion rings and my pie and lamb chops, obviously.”

He looked up in surprise, his brows shifting with his changing expression, “What? Well, we could split them later, I mean, I was hoping I could take you home, can’t have you taking a cab so late and all.”

You bit back a smile as you reminded yourself that this was what friends do. Friends. “I’m not gonna get taken by the fairies, Steve. Besides you let me take a cab home after Tony’s party and that was even later at night.”

“Just let me be a gentleman, please. Plus, I want some of those onion rings, so unless you’re planning to either split up the food into new boxes here on the sidewalk, you’ll have to fight me for them, and don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re not an Avenger,” he smiled at you challengingly.

You didn’t know what sounded better: getting to spend a bit more time with Steve, even though you knew it would only make you hurt more in the long run, or getting to fight Steve here on the street and letting out some of that physical tension that had been building over the last month.

You made the mistake of looking up at his damn sultry eyes under those damn dark lashes, and damn it you must be a masochist, because you found yourself saying, “Alright, Hoke, drive me home.”

He raised his brows, “Hoke?”

You clicked your tongue, “ _Driving Miss Daisy_. While we’re on the topic, might I recommend a Rhodia dot pad for your movie and TV journal? I hear they’re very versatile.”

He just rolled his eyes and smiled as he led you down the block. You stopped in your tracks when you saw what he was leading you to: his motorcycle. Sensing that you were no longer behind him, he turned around, brows raised in curiosity, but upon seeing your deer-in-headlights stance, his brows relaxed and he walked back to you.

“C’mon, Y/N. Just a bike; it won’t bite, promise,” he smiled comfortingly, with just a hint of sarcasm, shifting the bags into one hand so that he could gently place the other on the small of your back to coax you toward the bike.

Ignoring the way your heart nearly leapt into your throat at his touch, you stubbornly allowed yourself to be led as you bit back, “Lol, Steve, lol.”

“Did you just say ‘lol’? I thought that was just an acronym,” he said, and you could tell by the tone of his voice that he probably had that small crease between his brows, the one you always wanted to reach up and smooth out with your thumb. All the wine must have been going to your head.

“Yes, Steve, I said ‘lol.’ Maybe it’s escaped your notice, but I say stupid shit when I’m nervous.” Honestly, you couldn’t tell if the shake in your voice was from the prospect of climbing behind Steve on his motorcycle or from his hand on your lower back. Either way, it was his touch that was setting your nerves on fire and making you willfully ignore that you were friends, just friends, and nothing more.

Once next to the bike, he set the bags on the curb and removed his hand from your back. You winced at how cold you suddenly felt without his hand as he pulled up his seat and pulled out a helmet. Handing the helmet to you, he gently fit the bags into the small compartment.

“You know,” he called over his shoulder as he adjusted the bags to fit, “I didn’t give you that helmet for shiggles. Put it on.” 

You looked down at it, still not believing that you were going to be climbing onto a bike, in a skirt, behind Steve, and presumably gripping his body. And what part of his body? His chest? His stomach? His hips? NO, that was too low. But really, where?

“Y/N,” Steve’s concerned face came into focus as you came out of your thoughts, “If you’re really that nervous, I can have Tony send a car. I’m sure they’d let us wait at the bar inside.”

“What? No, it’s just, ah, well, you are a super hero after all, so I’m sure you won’t crash…”

He laughed through his nose, “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” 

With a roll of your eyes, you shoved the helmet down on your head, cursing at the bits of hair that became plastered to your forehead, awkwardly reaching up underneath the padding to tuck them out of the way. You could hear the muffled sound of Steve laughing before he reached up and pulled the glass visor up on its hinge.

“That better?” He asked still laughing at you.

“Shut up, you. And where’s your fucking helmet?” You spat out, still trying to adjust the helmet on your forehead.

“Super soldier,” he stated as if that were answer enough.

You rolled your eyes, “Do I need to shoot you in the neck with a syringe to remind you once again that you’re not invincible? You should really wear a helmet, if not for your own sake, then you can at least set a good example for kids on bicycles. Did you ever think of that?”

He shrugged his shoulders, but looked at you in agreement, “You’ve got a point there. Also, please stay away from my neck.” A wry smile crept onto his face as he reached out and flicked down the visor on your helmet. 

Climbing onto the bike, he roared it to life, looking back at you with a sly grin that made your legs feel weak. Laughing at your lack of movement, he jerked his head to get you to climb on. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you hitched up your dress as modestly as possible and clambered on behind Steve, who had politely looked away, while you tried to control your breathing when you felt the rub of Steve’s hips on the inside of your knees and thighs. Once you had your skirt tucked as safely under your legs as possible, still trying to ignore the fact that you were basically straddling Steve from behind, you timidly reached forward to grip at the sides of Steve’s jacket.

You could feel him exhale in what must have been a sigh before he reached behind himself, gently grabbing your wrists and planting them around his middle. Just between his rock hard pecs and his rock hard abs, just like this was just a shared ride between friends. Just friends. 

Your grip had still been a bit loose until without warning he pulled out onto the street and began driving down it. Your grip very quickly became vicelike as you held on for your life, burying your helmet clad face into his back. 

In reality, he couldn’t have been going all that fast. For one, Steve wouldn’t want to speed and get a ticket or something stupid like that, and for another, he wasn’t an asshole; you knew he wouldn’t goad your anxiety for any reason by intentionally driving recklessly. But for all you cared, he was racing down the thirty-five mile-an-hour road at a hundred. 

When he stopped at the first stop light, he reached down and gave one of your hands a reassuring squeeze. Before long, however, he took off again. And the rest of the ride home followed a similar pattern of you holding onto him like a baby koala, claws and all, and him gently giving your hand a squeeze every now and then.

You didn’t even notice when he finally pulled up outside your apartment building. But when his reassuring squeeze began to peel your fingers from their grip on his chest, you realized that the motor was no longer running. 

You released your grip and clambered off Steve and his bike as quickly as possible while doing your best to not look like you were trying to get away from him. Shaking your head out after you removed the helmet, you waited for him to get the bags out of the storage compartment before setting the helmet in their place.

Steve looked down at you expectantly, and you looked back up at him warily. You could not allow yourself to be fooled again by his easy friendliness and affection. You were seated at the same table as Bucky, Sam, Natasha, and the like, and while that was a privilege, it wasn’t the place you had wanted in Steve’s heart. Still, you could be grateful for his friendship, and maybe, given time, these romantics feelings for him would grow and evolve into new platonic feelings for him. You were just friends, and you could totally handle this.

“Well, you coming up or are we gonna have to start biffing right here in the street over those onion rings,” you laughed, voice just slightly tinged with nerves as you raised your hands in a mock fisticuffs stance.

Steve reared back in very fake fear, “Dear me! I’m shaking in my shoes at your raw power and brute strength.”

You reached over and swatted him on the arm, maybe just a little harder than could be considered joking, “Jerk, I’ll sick Douglass on you.”

Steve pursed his lips and shook his head, “That’s not gonna work out either because he really likes me, might turn on you if you tried.”

You scoffed as you climbed the few steps up to the apartment door and led him into the lobby, “Douglass is devoted to me; you’re just something new and shiny for him to get distracted with.”

Steve laughed, “Yeah, yeah, just keep telling yourself that.” You huffed as he continued to smirk at you, “You just wait, the minute you open that door he’s going to come running into my arms.”

You fixed him with a glare that made him falter in his steps, “No one comes between me and my Douglass, got it?” When Steve gulped and his adam’s apple bobbed slightly, your façade broke, and you began laughing at Steve’s apprehension while he nervously joined in, realizing you were just messing with him. “But seriously,” you forced the smile off your face again, “Douglass is my son. Please don’t make him like you more than me. It would break my heart.”

Steve smiled and rolled his eyes, “Are we gonna go upstairs and split this food up, or are we gonna keep standing here and play food poisoning roulette?”

You just sighed and began to lead him up the stairs to your hall. You could get through the next few minutes to split up the leftovers. Friends. Totally, freaking, BFFs. Friends.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know WHAT?! I am not going to aPOloGizE. Flame me yall.
> 
> ((jk, I love each and every one of you dearly, please be gentle))


	14. In Which You Have an Epistolary Epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You remember that letter Steve gave to you? Yeah, let’s just say it clears some things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY that this chapter is so late. This has been a crazy week with almost no time to write or edit. But something tells me that you might forgive me after this part though. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

You couldn’t quite be sure how you made it up to your apartment with Steve walking right behind you. You told yourself that the slight tremble in your fingers as you fumbled with your keys was because your hands were fatigued from having gripped onto Steve’s jacket so tightly for the nearly twenty-minute ride. Yeah, that must have been it. And the slight hitch in your throat was from your allergies and the cold night air, not because Steve was coming up to your apartment after a dinner for two. 

After all, why should you be nervous or anxious? Steve was your friend. You were Steve’s friend. This was all just a friendly exchange of foods after a friendly dinner together. Friends.

When you opened the door, Douglass bounded to neither you nor Steve, but instead to his food bowl with an insistent meow. You glanced back at Steve as he closed the door behind you both, with a triumphant grin. 

“I forgot to mention that the one thing that can get between me and Douglass is kibble. Gimme a sec while I feed him, and then we can get that food split up.”

Steve snickered as he set the food bags on your kitchen table, “Please, I would not want to get between Douglass and his one true love.”

After Douglass was fed, you snagged Steve’s cooler bag and plastic container from the top of your fridge while he was still carefully pulling out the numerous boxes of food from the bags.

“So how do we want to do this?” You asked holding up his bag and container for him before turning to get a few more of your own for the rest of the sides, “Since you’re you, I think a 70/30 split would be fair, not including my lamb chops and key lime pie, of course.”

Steve looked politely demure, “Oh no, we can just split it up the middle.” Seeing that you were about to protest, he added, “No, really. I insist.”

“Fine, have it your way. You’re the one who needs to eat his weight in food daily,” you smirked at him as you got some spoons from your utensil drawer, “But by all means, give me half the food.”

Handing him a couple spoons, you and he began to split the various sides into the plastic containers. It felt deceivingly domestic, you and Steve standing side by side in the kitchen like that after an evening together. You had to keep mentally chastising yourself and reminding yourself that despite how close you and he had become, especially in the last month, he had his sights set on another woman. He had told you so himself.

But when he playfully nudged at your arm with his elbow, pulling you from your mental monologue of _just friends, just friends_ , you could not stop the low irritated sigh that slipped past your lips. You couldn’t help the fleeting feeling of resentment toward Steve as he casually and ever so slightly breached the boundary between friendly and flirty for what felt like the hundredth time that night. If his heart really did belong to another, as he had told you several times now, couldn’t he at least pretend that it did when he was around you?

Your irritated sigh did not go unnoticed. He gave you a questioning look for the single fleeting moment you looked up from your task to make eye contact with him. You quickly looked back down to the food, feeling your mood begin to sour. 

Maybe it was the unexpectedness of the entire evening, maybe it was the two weeks of being away from work after such a whirlwind of activity, maybe it was how you’d had to comfort Steve while he had moped around under the effects of the anti-serum, maybe it was because the anti-serum had been reversed, maybe it was tony, maybe it was all of it. Whatever the cause, you knew you were tired and ready to finally be alone with your increasing agitation and anxiety. And Steve standing so close to you, the feeling of warmth rolling off his shoulders combining with that fragrant mixture of cologne and something uniquely Steve was almost more than you could handle.

With a frustrated sigh, you flung the spoon you’d been holding into the now empty to-go box with more strength than you had intended. 

Steve nudged you again, “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, just thinking about the Douglass rivalry,” you quickly deflected with a smile that even you knew was not convincing, collecting the spoons for the dishwasher. 

Steve didn’t push it, however, and instead responded with a smug grin as he popped lids onto the various dishes, “I mean, not to brag, but he has been brushing against my leg for the last few minutes while we’ve been standing here.”

Looking away from the sink, you could see that Douglass was indeed there at Steve’s feet affectionately rubbing his cheeks against his shins, “You little turd,” you hissed down at Douglass as you walked back to the table, still deflecting, “Whatever, I know who he really loves best: me.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart.”

You practically froze midstep but somehow after half a beat managed to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even if your movements had turned a bit robotic. Steve, however, seemed not to notice what he’d said or how you were reacting, which at least spared you from any awkwardness. But…Sweetheart? Where the hell had that come from?

“There,” Steve said as he fit the last plastic container into his cooler bag, “Perfect fit.”

“What?” You asked in bewilderment, your brain still not having moved on from his ‘sweetheart’ comment.

“The food, it all fits into my cooler bag,” he clarified, sensing your continued lack of understanding or enthusiasm, adding with a wry smile, “It’s just the small wins like this that help me get out of bed in the morning.”

You snorted, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned, “That’s a pretty low bar you got there, Rogers.”

He frowned a little as he leaned back against the table, “Roger’s? Well, okay then, guess I’ll start calling you Y/LN.”

Before you could bite your tongue or lip or sarcastic nature, you muttered just loud enough for him to hear, “Better that than ‘sweetheart’ I suppose.”

And just like that the very air in the kitchen seemed to shift. While Steve seemed to be doing his best impression of a cuttlefish, alternating between blushing and blanching, you were standing awkwardly somewhere between the sink and the table, desperately wishing that your dress or cardigan had pockets you could shove your hands into as you alternated between placing them on your hips and crossing your arms. And the only sound that could be heard in those few seconds that felt like years while neither of you spoke was the sound of Douglass pawing at the linoleum floor around his food bowl in a futile but instinctive drive to bury his leftover kibble.

You gave a nervous chuckle that did little to cut through the aching silence, “Sorry, I, just, it’s been a day. Y’know?” You could feel all the anxiety of the last month start to simmer within you.

Steve looked like he tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace, “Y/N, I’m sorry.” His voice sounded more like a question. “Is everything okay? If I said something, I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s nothing, Steve,” you cut him off with too much eagerness, eager to avoid the conversation you knew was coming.

“Are you sure? Because you’ve been acting odd all evening,” he couldn’t meet your eyeline as he awkwardly bent down to distract himself with scratching Douglass behind the ears.

“Really, I’m just tired I guess,” you lied again, “Who knew that two weeks off could be so exhausting, right?” 

“But it’s not just tonight. You’ve been acting odd for a while now,” Steve let his gaze timidly rise to yours, “You’ve been avoiding me—don’t tell me you haven’t,” he interrupted himself seeing you prepare to deny it, “If you’re upset about tonight, I swear that I had nothing to do with this. Tony, well, whatever this was, it was all him. I swear.” His eyes burned into yours.

You knew he wasn’t behind tonight’s dinner surprise, but that wasn’t what was bothering you, not really anyway. It really was just a little bit of everything, and the cherry was him calling you sweetheart when you knew that that title belonged to another. So, instead, you just looked down at him, unsure of what to do or say.

“C’mon, what’s goin’ on?” Steve was looking at you so earnestly, you knew you wouldn’t be able to lie to him much longer.

“Nothing, I guess— I just—” you let out a sigh. You might as well out with it, “I— I’m frustrated with you, have been for a while I guess.”

His face grew impassive save for that small crease between his brow. 

You took a deep breath. This wouldn’t be easy, and you’d only be able to talk in half truths, but if you were going to be his friend, and a good one, then you might as well start from a place of honesty. 

“I’m frustrated with you, and not just you, but with a lot of things.” You took another deep breath, “For starters, you spent more than a week and a half moping about because you thought you couldn’t be Captain America anymore. Just because you were small and ‘normal’ again, you thought people wouldn’t look to you as a fearless hero anymore, you thought women wouldn’t swoon over you, you really actually thought that people would stop caring about you. And by ‘people’ I mean me, Bucky, Tony, Nat, Sam, all of us.” 

All the bitterness that had been stewing and growing stronger during the past few weeks was beginning to simmer and steam. 

Steve was still standing, bracing himself against the table as the words began to come more and more easily, “And I’m just like, are you fucking serious? Were you even listening to me at all? Any of us? Because I distinctly remember telling you how much all of us care about you no matter what, how much I care about you. But you apparently didn’t listen to any of it. You just kept feeling sorry for yourself because you were so intent on how complete strangers and one woman might perceive you that you forgot that you have a family here who loves you no matter what.”

You don’t how it started, but you realized that you were now pacing the length of your kitchen as Steve stood silent, both from shock and shame, “And maybe I have no right to be mad at you, maybe I’m overreacting, because I know that you and I are just work friends. But it hurt, you know? It hurt that no matter how many times I told you how much I care about you, how little I cared about what body you were in, or how much I tried to show you that I love you for you, that you just ignored everything I said.”

You could see a new light come into Steve’s eyes, and he looked like he wanted to speak up, but you weren’t done. You were on a roll, and you’d be damned if you let him stop you. “And I’ve tried helping you talk to this mystery love of yours, but you’re not listening to any of that either. So you know what? Just do what you want. Keep pining over her in secret. It really doesn’t matter because you know what Steve? You’re never going to be good enough for her anyway.”

“Jesus, Y/N!” He exclaimed, looking at you with utter shock written on every feature.

You held up your hand, “I mean it, and I’ll tell you why.” You stared at him point blank, “Answer me this. Now that you’re miraculously big, strong, and handsome again, do you feel like you could go up to this woman and tell her how you feel? Do you?”

“Well not anymore, I don’t,” he grumbled under his breath, glaring at you out of shocked hurt more than anger.

You rolled your eyes, “No, even if hadn’t said what I just said, would you feel confident enough? Because you’ve had two weeks to tell her and still nothing. And don’t give me that ‘it’ll make her feel uncomfortable’ line again because if she’s not interested, there’s an HR form for that too.”

He looked down at his lap thoughtfully for almost a full minute before saying under his breath, “No, I guess not.” 

“Exactly. You wanna know why?” 

“Would it matter if I told you no?” He sighed at you.

You rolled your eyes at him again, “Not really. The fact of the matter is this, Steve. You’ll never be as strong as the Hulk. You’ll never be as analytical as Vision, as insightful as Natasha, as smart as Tony, as noble as Thor, as empathetic as Wanda, as funny as Sam, or as handsome as Bucky.” 

“Okay, okay!” He cut in clearly having enough of your diatribe, openly glaring at you now, “Jeez! Was that last one necessary?”

You had the courtesy to give him a small smile, however fleeting it may have been, sarcastically adding, “It was completely necessary.”

“Alright, fine. I get it. I’m none of those things. How is any of this supposed to make feel better?” He bit back, throwing himself down on your kitchen chair in a huff and crossing his arms across his chest almost defensively.

Your face softened as did your voice as you came to sit in the seat right next to him, “It isn’t, and I’m not finished. You’ll never be good enough at anything for her, or anyone else for that matter. And it’s not because you’ve got some horrible deficit in any of those qualities. It’s because you’ll never be good enough for yourself.”

The words hung in the air like a volatile fume. One wrong move and whole room would explode. 

“Y/N, I just, what?” His gaze seemed to be boring holes into your already cracked and peeling kitchen floor.

You gently placed your hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Steve, far be it from me to disseminate that pop psychology self-help bullshit, ‘that no one will ever love you until you love yourself,’ but there is a grain of truth to it. You’ll never be comfortable in love until you allow yourself _to be loved_ , really and truly loved for who you are inside and out, and that starts with loving yourself.” 

You gave him a few seconds to process before continuing, “Look, I know I’m not exactly one to go around talking about raising your self-esteem and positive thinking and all that. If the floor were the lowest your self-esteem could get, there’s a lot days when I would be the one reaching for a shovel. But what I’m getting at is that until you finally see your own true value, not as an Avenger, but as a person, merits and faults and warts and all, you’re going to find it very difficult to believe it when someone else really sees you too.”

Steve’s face was a mask of hurt, deep-thought, and something else. Was it hope?

You removed your hand from his shoulder, “I’ll leave you with this. No matter how true your love is for this mystery woman of yours,” you thought you saw a flash of pain cross his face, but it must have been your imagination projecting your own hurt outward, “and no matter how true hers is for you, at the end of the day it won’t mean anything if you can’t first love yourself. You can’t rely on someone else to hold together the pieces of your heart for you. Sure, they can help, but it’s you who has to put in the most work because they’ve got their own heart to hold together.”

Steve sat there in silence for several long seconds, his eyes occasionally flitting up to yours. You didn’t dare speak or even move lest you break whatever spell had settled over the two of you.

He took in a hesitant breath and opened his mouth to speak before closing it again. Finally, after a few more moments, he managed to simply say, “Y/N, I don’t— I don’t really know what to say.”

You felt a wave a guilt come over you. Maybe you’d been a bit harsh with him, but at the same time, he hadn’t yet responded to gentle hints and prodding either, “Steve, you don’t have to say anything. Just think about it, take it to heart or don’t, and use my advice or don’t. I can’t tell you how to live your life, but I just hate to see you floundering so. You know?”

He nodded his head a few times before fixing you with a look that made you feel exposed and practically had you squirming in your seat. But Steve? He looked lost, but not necessarily in bad way. Something about his eyes in that moment almost made you lose yourself as well. 

But whether by the grace of some unseen god or devil, you couldn’t know which, Douglass took that moment of calm to begin retching noisily under the table before throwing up his food right there.

“Oh shit, Douglass!” You leapt out of your seat without another thought, bolting straight to the paper towels and anti-bacterial spray, “Ugh, sorry, Steve, he probably ate too fast. Just gimme a sec.” 

Steve was standing now, looking like he wanted to help but was utterly clueless as to how. You just waved him off as you dived under the table to clean up the vomit and disinfect your floor. By the time you crawled back out from under the table you could feel a slight sheen of sweat on your forehead from bending over for so long. And by the time you had thrown away the paper towels, washed your hands, and poured out a little more kibble for Douglass, you were feeling done with the night.

Luckily, Steve didn’t need to be told the obvious. He was already thumbing at the straps of his cooler bag when you turned around from the sink to face him.

He held out his hand politely, “Well, look, you’ve uh, you’ve given me a lot to think about, but I don’t want to keep you up.”

You lamely nodded your head, “Yeah, hell of a night, huh?”

Steve gave you a small pained smile, “Yeah.”

As you walked him to your door, you put what you hoped was a comforting hand on his arm, “Look, I hope I wasn’t too mean. I just, it’s really been eating me up inside, and I didn’t think it was fair to keep avoiding you or blaming you somehow for how I was feeling. You know?”

He gave you another one of his looks before sighing and looking down at his feet, “Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

There was a brief moment that neither of you spoke, neither of you looked at the other, but both of you wanted to say the one thing that couldn’t even be put to words even in thought. That one thing that could end your friendship and give HR a hell of a lot of paperwork come Monday morning. So you both stood in silence those passing seconds, wishing for the courage to speak.

“Well,” you finally croaked out, “I guess, I’ll send you on your way then.” You somehow managed a smile, “Be sure to give Tony hell the next time you and he spar for pulling a fast one on us like that, will ya?”

Steve’s lips quirked upward, “I’ll be sure to give him a proper beating.”

You let out a small chuckle, just barely tinged with nervous energy, “Good. Have Sam film it too.” You shook your head at yourself for making small talk in those last moments of the evening.

“Thank you, Y/N. Really,” Steve whispered, his eyes looking almost misty in the dim light of your doorway.

You felt your heart threatening to tear in half as you spoke your closing words, “Steve, just promise me one thing. Maybe not tonight—you’ve got plenty to think over as it is—but tell this woman how you feel, how you really feel.”

Steve visibly swallowed, his eyes not leaving yours, “I promise. Not tonight though. It really has been a long night.” 

“Good. Well then, goodnight, Steve. I guess I’ll see you on Monday, back to workaday life and all.”

Steve nodded his head, smiling weakly as he stepped out your door, “ ‘Night, Y/N.”

You couldn’t force yourself to close the door but instead watched Steve walk down the hall and down the stairs until the top of his head disappeared from view.

As you stepped back into your apartment, you felt topsy-turvy, as though too many conflicting emotions were competing for dominance in your mind, making you dizzy and giddy. Sadness, longing, love, friendship, they all seemed to be battling it out in your head and in your heart. 

Stripping off your clothes, leaving them where they landed, you slowly padded toward your bathroom for a long, hot shower. Surely the steam and the white noise of the water roaring in your ears would be enough to drown out and soothe your conflicting thoughts and feelings.

You weren’t sure how long you stood under your weak shower head, wistfully remembering the fancy rain shower from the penthouse in D.C., but when the water began to lose some of its heat, you grudgingly turned the knob and stepped out.

Still wrapped in your towel, you walked into your living room and clicked on the TV to a nature documentary and cranked the volume up, hoping that David Attenborough’s soothing voice could at least keep your thoughts in check. 

You headed back to your bathroom to put on a face mask, after all, why not after the evening you’d had? But after pulling out each drawer several times and digging around your cabinet for a few minutes, you couldn’t find the jar of mask anywhere. Taking a moment to think where it could have been stashed away, you suddenly had a hazy and fevered memory of doing a half assed job of unpacking after getting back from D.C. while burning up and sick with the flu.

Heading to your closet, you pulled down your suitcase from the high shelf and began digging through the various pockets and pouches inside and out. Finally, you found the small bag of travel toiletries and pulled out your jar of face mask, and that’s when you saw it. 

Just a corner sticking out from one of the small side pouches on the outside of the suitcase was an envelope, the envelope. You stayed kneeling there for a long moment looking at it. You must have forgotten all about it in your fevered daze. With tentative fingers, you finally reached out for it and plucked it from where it had been hidden and forgotten.

Your face mask now completely disregarded, you held the envelope in your hands as Steve’s words came back you from that night.

_“It’s not a will. I just— There’s just some things I had to get off my chest, and if I make it through tonight unscathed, then I promise I’ll just tell you in person and not in a letter.”_

He had made it out unscathed, so technically you had no right to read the letter. At the same time, you argued with yourself, Steve hadn’t actually told you what the letter said as he’d promised, so maybe it served him right if you read the damn thing. Besides, you continued to reason, what could possibly be in here that was so top secret, so important that you’d be violating his trust by reading it. If it had really been that important, then Steve should have gotten it back from you, right? 

“Oh, come on,” you muttered to yourself, “It’s not like this is the _Pulp Fiction_ briefcase or anything.”

And with that you tore open the flap, pulled out the letter, and began reading, still sitting there on your bedroom floor in front of the closet. And with every word, every sentence you read of Steve’s old fashioned scrawling hand, the faster your heart began to beat and the warmer your chest began to feel.

_Y/N,_

_I know you probably think a letter is overly formal, but as you’re always reminding me, I am a hundred years old, so cut me some slack._

_I guess I’m writing to you right now because there is at least a small part of me—well smaller than the whole of me is at the moment—that is worried that this serum Banner and Cho are cooking up might not work as intended. And if there is no tomorrow or if I wake up with no face and a red skull, well there’s just something I have to tell you first._

_I won’t beat around the bush with platitudes or flowery language, I know how much you hate that kind of thing. I love you. There it is. I love you, Y/N._

_Every weekday when I wake up, I can’t wait to see you at work, and when 5 o’clock rolls around and you leave, a part of me leaves with you. I know people must think I’m crazy because I look forward to Mondays and dread Fridays, but one means seeing you and the other means saying goodbye._

_I thought after I lost Peggy and everything else in my life, that I’d never be able to connect with anyone like that again, never love anyone again. But here I am, utterly lost in you._

_I don’t know if it’s unfair for me to tell you like this, or tell you at all, but there were so many things I never got to say to so many people before my world went black in 1945. I can’t make that mistake again._

_I know that everything will probably be alright, and this is all moot. I’m sure I’ll end up taking this letter back from you tomorrow and making up some alternate story about what was said in these lines, some lie about how much our friendship means to me. I’ll probably burn the letter, just in case, so that there’s no possible way you could accidentally read it._

_But just in case, please know that you’ve given me back a piece of myself that I thought was still lost in the ice._

_I love all of you, Y/N._

_Yours if you’ll have me,  
Steve_

You read the letter a second time, then a third. You didn’t even realize you’d started crying until a lone tear dropped onto the paper, causing the ink to run. 

The words were there, in his hand no less. Steve, the man whom you’d spent so many countless hours yearning for, craving, that man loved you. Steve loved you. 

How could you have been so blind? So stubborn and stupid? Natasha had seen it. Bucky had seen it. And you were pretty sure Tony had seen it too. Even for a while you had almost seen it, even if you had told yourself it was all in your head. All it had taken was one offhand remark from Steve for you to close down and let your heart seal itself off. 

Your own words that you had impatiently given to Steve less than an hour ago flooded back in a guilty wave. You were worthy of his love. Steve loved you. 

You were the woman he had talked about and worried about. You were Her. You had foolishly and meanly been jealous of Sharon, or at least a Sharon shaped visage, and for what? It had always been you.

You didn’t know if you should laugh or cry or sing or scream for joy or scream at Steve for being so damn vague. 

In a flash of despair, you realized that Steve was gone; you’d sent him away, and he was probably already back at the tower by now. But you had to see him, now that you really, really knew.

Heedless of the fact that you were still wrapped in your damp towel, you sprinted out of your room and down the hall, muttering a hurried apology to Douglass who hissed at you in fear as you almost stepped on him in your frantic run. 

Rifling through your purse. You pulled out your phone and typed out your message.

> **You:** Steve. I need to talk to you. Now. My place or yours? I read your letter.

You hit send, and feeling weak in the knees, you sank down on your couch, phone cradled in your hands and smiling absently as David Attenborough crouched behind a rock and narrated the life of a songbird.

You may have been an absolute fool, but Steve, fool that he was, didn’t seem to mind. The 2009 _Pride and Prejudice_ had it right all along, “We are all fools in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE YALL HAPPY NOW?!? DI YALL REALLY THINK THIS WOULD HAVE A SAD ENDING??! The next part will make up for every bit of angst and trauma yall have had to deal with. I fucking PROMISE!! <3
> 
> Looking ahead, I've got one more chapter (such fluff) and an epilogue after that. And then IT IS OVER and I won't know what to do with myself....


	15. In Which You and Steve Finally, Finally.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Steve finally...Well the title says it all, doesn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yall as usual for your eternal patience and support. Been a crazy few weeks, but I’m recovering spoons, and I really, really, loved writing this part. I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS FIC IS ALMOST OVER WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH MYSELF AFTER THIS....ahem, anyhow....

Your eyes felt sticky and dry as you slowly regained your senses. You were keenly aware of the foul taste in your mouth, cottony and stale, and there was a decided panging ache in your neck, likely due to the cramped position it was in, chin tucked to your chest. The jubilant voice of a salesman talking up the finer points of a counter-top rotisserie played in the background. 

You reached up to rub at your eyes, wincing at how scratchy and bone dry they felt as you desperately tried to blink them open in spite of the imaginary grit that compelled you to keep them closed. You were on your couch, still wrapped in your towel, Douglass curled up next your thigh and your phone wedged in between the couch cushions. The first rays of sunshine were just beginning to peak through your living room curtains.

“What the…” you muttered groggily as you sat up and gave your neck a loud crack. In a flash, your heart nearly leapt from your chest as you hastily reached for your phone. It was the morning. It was the next morning. You must have fallen asleep while waiting for Steve to respond, and he had probably texted you back and must have thought you had intentionally ignored him. How would you be able to explain that you had fallen asleep? Sure, it was a legitimate excuse, but of all things that could have kept you from your phone—a dead battery and no way to charge it, an apartment fire, or even a new batch of aliens invading New York City—falling asleep had to be the lamest reason of them all.

Unlocking your screen, ready to grovel and apologize, your heart, which had still been lodged somewhere in your throat, plummeted to the pit of your stomach as you opened your decidedly empty inbox.

> **You:** Steve. I need to talk to you. Now. My place or yours? I read your letter.  
>  ✓Seen 11:47pm

What the hell? Why hadn’t he texted you back? You had texted him only eight minutes prior to the read receipt. Surely, he wouldn’t have thought you would have been asleep in bed after such a short time. Never mind the fact that you actually had been asleep by then, albeit on your couch. 

It was just past seven in the morning, and you knew he and the team would usually be up by then for training, so why had you not gotten a response from him yet? Your mind began to race with all the possible explanations as you stood from the couch, stretching your stiff back, neck, and limbs before stumbling into the kitchen to feed Douglass and make your coffee.

Maybe you should have made your text clearer? More inviting? But you didn’t want to confess your love for him in a text. But still, maybe he had seen it and thought you were mad or something? Or maybe he was offended that you had read the letter against his wishes? Maybe you should send him a follow up message now that you were hopefully thinking more clearly in the light of morning, just to explain yourself? Maybe, maybe, maybe?

Another thought occurred to you, one that made your stomach go queasy. He had written this letter over two weeks ago, right before he thought he might be putting his life in danger, right before he thought that there might not be a tomorrow for him. Had he maybe not meant any of it? He hadn’t come to tell you about the contents of the letter afterwards as he had promised, not even a lie about letter as he had written. He hadn’t he even bothered to get the damn thing back at all. Had he forgotten about the letter? Was that possible? Or worse, you thought with a sickening twist in your gut, had he since changed his mind, having overstated his feelings in the heat of a desperate moment?

“Arrgh!” You practically shouted, your anxious thoughts spilling into incomprehensible syllables, and causing Douglass to jump in surprise. Setting your mug down, you hurried over to him, muttering soothingly. 

You sat there, on the floor, running your fingers through Douglass’ silky fur, which was as comforting to his purring nerves as it was to you. Your mind continued to run through all the things Steve had said in his letter and if you could have worded your text message better, finally deciding that you were done waiting, done feeling unsure. You were going to eat your breakfast calmly, go about your morning errands calmly, and give Steve the benefit of the doubt. And if by lunch he was still incommunicado, you were going over the tower yourself and confronting him, again calmly. 

Of course, ‘calmly’ was easier said than done as you waited in line at the pharmacy, tapping your foot impatiently, not because of the slow customer ahead of you who had a health insurance issue but because of the empty inbox you made the mistake of looking at for the second time in five minutes. As you fidgeted in your seat at the laundromat while your clothes tumbled in the dryer, you realized that you’d missed several minutes of dialogue of your audiobook while you had been ruminating and chewing your lip raw. By the time you made it back to your apartment around noon, you had drafted and deleted more than ten texts to Steve, all different variations of you begging him to text you back and apologizing for having read the letter. 

And by the time you were sitting on the train glowering down at your read and ignored text message on the subway, you could feel a growing sense of both agitation and anxiety regarding everything from his letter to your text, from to the conversation you’d had with Steve last night to the one you’d had at Tony’s party several weeks ago.

As your train pulled up to your stop, you decided to send a courtesy text to Tony to let him know that you’d be stopping by the Avengers’ residences, and this small task kept your mind occupied for the remainder of your walk out of the subway and up to the tower.

> **You:** Tony, I’m stopping by the tower residences, fyi.  
>  Oh, and about that little stunt you pulled last night, you and I will have words…but not now.

You saw your phone light up with a response as you walked through the front doors and waved your ID badge to the security guard on duty. 

> **Boss Man:** Well, it would seem to have gone well, huh?   
>  That’s why you’re coming to see loverboy, right?

You rolled your eyes as you punched the call button for the elevator. 

> **You:** Yes and no. I’ll let you know if I want that job transfer to DC you were offering to Paul, lol.  
>  Also, never say ‘loverboy’ ever again…ever.

> **Boss Man:** Uh oh. What’s the no about?   
>  He did look a bit like Eeyore this morning in the gym.   
> Do I need to send one of the Iron Legion after him?

You were torn between a groan and laugh at Tony, typing in your access code for the residential floors before the elevator took off.

> **You:** NO. Besides, if I really wanted you to kick his ass, I would demand that you do it yourself on video, no suit, just you and Steve, mono y mono.

> **Boss Man:** He would tear me limb from limb.

> **You:** I see no problems there. Like I said, you and will have words later.

> **Boss Man:** You do know I’m your boss, right?

> **You:** Remember that little talk we had about blackmail at the beginning of the Steve Situation? And remember how you insisted to Pepper that I wouldn’t need to sign an NDA because I’m trustworthy?   
>  Remember?  
> You and I will have words.

> **Boss Man:** You are a shrewd negotiator.

Just then, the elevator dinged its arrival. Typing out your last response, you blacked out your phone screen and tucked it back into your purse next to Steve’s folded letter.

> **You:** Yeah. Anyway, I’m here. Don’t bug me, gonna go confront this fool.

Climbing the wide stairs as you were quickly becoming accustomed to, your nerves were beginning to go into overdrive. The climb left you feeling more winded than it should have, and you suddenly felt like coming here unannounced to anyone but Tony was a horrible idea. 

You immediately noticed Sam and Bucky in the kitchen, who seemed to be sharing a tense conversation. Whether it was merely them bickering playfully as they often did or them arguing something more serious, you couldn’t tell because as soon as they noticed you walking toward them from across the common area, they went silent.

“Hey, you two. Don’t mean to interrupt anything,” you said awkwardly, stepping into the kitchen.

Sam and Bucky both began blustering denials as you smiled knowingly.

“Nah, Y/N,” Sam said, clearly flustered, “We just, we weren’t expecting to see you. Wait,” his agitation was suddenly replaced by genuine confusion, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you on vacation, and isn’t this Saturday anyway?”

“Yes and yes. I’m here to see Steve.” You did your best to ignore how they both exchanged an uncomfortable glance, “Know where I can find him?”

Bucky, his voice croaking slightly, responded while Sam stared at you with his mouth gaping open, “He’s in his room.”

You hesitated expectantly for a moment, waiting for Bucky to elaborate, before remembering that he was Bucky; elaborations were rare with him. 

“And where might that be?” You asked raising your brows at them both impatiently.

Sam finally seemed to come out of whatever stupor had left him speechless. “Down that hall,” he pointed to a hall across the common area, the same one you remembered a smaller Steve stalking toward that first morning after the mission-gone-wrong all those weeks ago, “Second door on the left.”

You gave them both a raised eyebrow, perplexed by their unusual behavior and oddly suspicious that they might have been arguing about something regarding you. “ ‘K. Thanks. Carry on with whatever you were discussing.”

They both feigned innocence as you smirked and headed for the hall Sam had pointed to. And just like that, the butterflies that had ceased their flutterings in that brief exchange suddenly started back up again with renewed vigor as your legs compelled you forward, running more on muscle memory than deliberate action on your part.

 _Second door on the left, second door on the left_. You repeated the directions like a mantra, not because they were complicated or anything, but because doing so helped you take your mind off the matter at hand, the reason you were headed for the second door on the left. You passed the first pair of doors, one on each side of the hall, wondering briefly which of the Avengers lived there. Then, all too soon, you came to the second door on the left.

It was a thoroughly non-descript door, you mused as you stood there not knocking. What had you been expecting? For Steve’s door to be draped in stars and stripes: the red, white, and blue? It was just a door, and you were just stalling, standing there, still not knocking.

You took a deep, albeit very shaky, breath and then another and then another. Then before your mind could react to what your body did, you knocked on Steve’s door with an overly chipper rat-a-tatt-tatt.

You could hear the sounds of a body shuffling, footsteps stumbling, a muffled “just a minute,” and then more lumbering. You couldn’t decide if your heart were beating out of control or ceasing its movements altogether as you stood there, waiting and listening. You finally heard the sounds of rapid, heavy footfalls heading for the door before the knob turned with a jerk and you found yourself face to face with Steve. 

It seemed to take him a beat to grasp that you were standing in front of him, and when realization finally washed over his face, his features drew back and his skin seemed to drain of any color, save for his eyes. You couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were ringed with red.

You gulped down a non-existent lump in your throat, “Steve. Can I come in?”

His eyes flitted rapidly between yours as he stuttered out hummed reply, opening the door for you and sweeping his hand back to let you in.

You walked through the door without a word, looking into his now averted eyes, the silence between you both hanging heavily in the air and the tension palpable.

You stepped into a small sitting room with a door to the right that led to his bedroom, and you edged toward the couch without actually taking a seat. You quickly looked around his quarters, taking stock of the place that Steve called home, enjoying the brief glimpse into his intimate life that the public never saw and that you had never seen until now, marveling at the fact that you had never actually been beyond the large kitchen and common area. 

It was as if Tony and Steve’s disparate sensibilities regarding interior design and technology were at war with each other. Steve’s antique looking record player had been jerry-rigged up to a modern receiver and set speakers alongside a modestly sized flatscreen TV. Yellowing black and white photographs of Steve’s life from before were tucked into sleek and anachronistic matte black frames, dotting the walls and every horizontal surface. Old fashioned wood and upholstered furniture clashed with the modern architecture of the room and its neutral tones in the walls and flooring.

You didn’t realize how lost you had gotten in seeing this new piece of Steve until you heard him timidly clear his throat from behind you.

Spinning on your heel, you looked him in the eyes, eyes which immediately flickered away nervously, “Why haven’t you texted me back?”

Steve’s gaze shot up to yours, fear evident in his tensed neck and shoulders and furrowed brow, “What?”

You huffed impatiently, “I waited for you to text me back last night, and you never did. I needed to, need to, talk to you.”

Steve gave no response but continued to look at you anxiously.

“Why? Why have you ignored me?” You asked, your voice tinged with anxiety and irritation, all the possible explanations you’d imagined earlier coming back to you at full force, making you almost fearful of his answer.

“I didn’t, I mean, I—” Steve stumbled and faltered over his words before trailing off and looking at you pleadingly.

You yourself could barely think enough to speak, but you managed it, “I’ve been going through every possible reason for why you have been ignoring me. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so vague in my text. Or maybe you didn’t mean what you said in your letter, not really anyway. Or maybe you’d changed your mind since you wrote it?” You pulled the folded letter, stripped of its envelope, from your purse, holding it up to him in your now shaking fingers.

Steve frowned slightly as he sucked in a stubborn breath and stared at the paper with a burning expression in his eyes, “Y/N, it’s not that. I just, I dunno what I’m trying to say.” 

You scoffed, “Then try harder.”

“I wanted to put off the inevitable! There!” He snapped, his face immediately crumpling in apparent pain.

You were stunned for a second, reminded of his face when he’d snapped at you over the breakfast table with his small fists clenched at his side all those weeks ago. You softened your voice as you asked, “What do you mean inevitable?”

Steve threw his head back in exasperation, “Look, I’ll go sign that form with HR first thing on Monday, the one that says I’ll leave you alone, and I’ll give you as much space at work as you need,” you looked at him in stunned disbelief as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m just really sorry, Y/N, okay?”

You were speechless for a moment. Did Steve seriously think you’d come all the way over to the tower and into his quarters just to reject him? To tell him that his letter had meant nothing to you? To tell him you’d be talking with HR as if you would somehow distrust him or be afraid of him? Did he really think you wouldn’t return his feelings?

His face certainly attested to his belief in your rejection, and you audibly scoffed at that notion before blurting out, “Steve, I love you.” It came out more as an indignant rebuttal than a confession of feelings, but the words hung in the air nonetheless. “I have been in love with you, but I never said anything because we work together, and then when I finally got up the courage to maybe actually do something about it, you told me you were in love with some ‘woman’ who was definitely not me.” 

Steve’s face was one of astonishment, disbelief, hope, and relief all rolled up into one as he attempted to grapple with what you’d just said and were continuing to say.

You knew your voice sounded harsh, but it was too late to take back what you had said. So, you continued on, “Was that ‘woman’ me the whole time? Because if I was, and you’re telling me that you meant every word in this letter, then you are an absolute fucking moron, Steve. Why would you tell me you loved an imaginary someone else if you were in love with me the whole time? I’ve been avoiding you because I thought I needed to heal my feelings because I love you but I thought you loved someone else, but now you’re avoiding me, and I think I might just like to slap you upside the head for being such an absolute idiot—”

As soon as the second ‘I love you’ passed your lips, something in Steve clicked into place. He deserved your love. He was worthy of your love. And holy fucking shit, you actually, really did love him back?! Steve could easily bench press a thousand pounds, stop a helicopter with his bare hands, and outmatch demigods and Titans alike in battle. But in that moment, he felt as though every muscle in his body had been turned to overcooked spaghetti: limp and weak and threatening to break under its own weight: like he could barely stand, barely put one foot in front of the other as he loped toward you with reckless abandon, every nerve in his body tingling with an electric heat.

“—I mean, I thought I was a fucking fool, but you? You are beyond—” You had a whole string of verbal abuses and criticisms queuing up on your tongue to lash out at Steve, but you didn’t get the chance to let any more of them out. Before you knew what was happening, Steve had closed the distance between you both. His hands were cradling your cheeks with a tender but firm hold, drawing your face to his, sharing his breath with yours as his lips oh so delicately brushed against your mouth.

A cold stiffness took hold of your limbs as you reached up to clutch at the shirt on his chest. The kiss was hardly a kiss, more like a whispering request, a plea for more. He pulled back before that whisper could gain voice, leaving your lips both on fire with need and cold from the lack of his touch. 

His eyes searched yours, hunting for any hint of rejection, and when he found none, they seemed to light up with adoration, still unbelieving astonishment, and something akin to surrender. Not waiting another beat, you surged forward, capturing his smile with yours as one of your hands reached up to desperately clutch at the back of his neck, keeping him in place as though he might disappear at any moment. 

His lips tasted even sweeter than you could have imagined, and that intoxicating combination of his cologne mixed with his own scent filled your nostrils and went straight to your head. Nearly two years of looking, months and months of longing, and weeks of loving seemed to ignite and explode from where your lips met with his because you were here, finally, finally here, kissing him. You had dreamed of this moment, longed for it, and now that it was really and truly happening, your mind almost couldn’t keep up with it.

You were grateful that one of his hands had moved from your cheek to grip at your back, pulling your body flush with his because without him holding you, you knew your legs would not be able to support you any longer. Your thighs, pelvis, stomach, and chest were all impossibly close to his, pressing up the line of his body as he held you there, his hand massaging and kneading at the skin just under the hem of your shirt while the other still held your cheek tenderly. 

Your head felt dizzy with need and your cheeks warm with desire as Steve’s tongue brushed against yours, intoxicating and somehow not enough. You needed more of him, all of him, one of your hands still needfully clutching at the shirt on his chest. 

And then you were falling, falling for him all over again, falling in love and in lust for this man, this hero, this god amongst men who had somehow impossibly chosen you out of the billions of other women on this planet to love and to hold like this. And then you were literally falling.

Your lack of balance mixed with his suddenly weakened muscles ended with you both falling sideways, luckily onto the arm of the couch. Steve let the momentum of the fall take him over the arm and backwards onto the cushions, pulling you with him. Your face was buried in his impossibly firm but soft chest, and your legs, which were tangled with his, dangled over the side of the couch.

You felt Steve’s chest rumble under your cheek as he began laughing, and you couldn’t help but join in. This was how all your need and desire culminated? With you and he literally falling over, weak in the knees, and landing in a jumble of limbs and love? There were worse ways to fall.

Peaking your face up from its resting place, your breath faltered at the look of unbridled warmth and love written on every plane of Steve’s face, from his glassy, dilated eyes, to the peak between his brows, and the sweet, small smile tugging at kiss blushed lips.

Gaining leverage on his shoulders, you heaved yourself forward to level your face with his as he moved sideways toward the back of the couch to make room for you next to him. 

You knew you must have looked like a fool, grin permanently plastered on your face, but Steve matched your foolish, dreamy smile with one of his own, so maybe that was how it should be.

“You love me?” He asked in a low hum.

You squinted your eyes, smiling and shaking your head at him, “I thought I made that pretty obvious just now. Please don’t make me say it again.”

A hint of amusement came into his eyes that reminded you of how you and he had always teased each other, “What, why? I love you, and I don’t have a problem saying it, not ever again. I might even keep telling you every minute of every day.”

You smirked and rolled your eyes, “Don’t be such a sap. I’m a once is enough kind of gal.”

“Well at least I know love hasn’t changed you; you’re still grumpy,” he quirked his brows at you.

You rolled your eyes even harder at that, “Yeah, and you’re still dramatic as shit, Mr. ‘I’ll tell you I love you every minute.’ ”

“You know you love it, just like I love you. See there’s another one,” he smiled at his own humor.

You clicked your tongue in response, “You’re right, and it hasn’t even been thirty seconds since your last ‘I love you.’ ”

“Shh,” he shushed, placing his finger on your lips, “less bickering, more kissing.”

“Can’t argue with—” For the second time he cut off your words with a kiss, not that you were complaining. 

Maybe it was because of the sweet nothings exchanged or the chance to breathe and fully comprehend the feelings confessed, but this time the kiss was less hurried, less frantic, more reverent, more loving. Your breaths mingled as you parted your lips to let him in, and you could feel him smile against your mouth as his tongue caressed yours.

As your hands roamed the firm but soft slopes of his chest and stomach that you had for so long wanted to touch, it was more of an exploration rather than you clutching in desperation as though he might run away. And as his hands did some exploring of their own, you could savor the burning trails his fingers left on your skin in their path.

“How long?” He whispered against your lips.

You hummed in question. 

“How long have you loved me?”

You pulled back to look into his eyes, seeing affectionate curiosity there. Looking up in thought, you shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t really know actually. I think I’ve,” you looked him pointedly in the eyes, “I’ve loved you for a while now, but I didn’t really realize what it was until that night you snuck out of the tower to drink wine, pet Douglass, and watch _Jurassic Park_ with me. That was definitely the night I could first put it to words anyhow.”

His gaze shifted, and his brows creased slightly while you spoke as he stared at you with an intensity that made you practically squirm.

“Jeez, Steve, what?” You whined under his scrutiny.

His face softened somewhat into a look of wonder, “It’s just that, well, I was…small and ugly then.”

If you could have rolled your eyes all the way into the back of your head, you would have done so in that moment, “Come on. Really? This again?” 

He looked perplexed. 

“What did I spend ten minutes berating you about last night, hmm? It didn’t matter to me. Infatuation cares about appearances; love cares about what’s beneath the veneer. I wouldn’t be telling you that I love you if I didn’t actually love you. I love all of you, Steve.” 

“You just told me you love me three times in just over a minute, and you quoted my letter at that,” he grinned at you smugly.

“Shall we partition off a few pages of your pop-culture notebook to keep a running tally for every time one of us says it?”

He rolled his eyes, as his fingers stroked up and down the side of your hip and waist, “Now who’s a smartass.”

You rolled your eyes but reached up with your hand to stroke gently at his cheek, slightly stubbled from having not shaved that morning, “And besides, you weren’t ugly then and you aren’t ugly now. To me, you still looked like the same handsome Steve I see right now even if you couldn’t have bench pressed me.” 

Loving how the tips of his ears had begun to light up at your flattery, you pressed just a little further, “Plus, I don’t think there’s a woman on earth who actually cares about height. I know I don’t. Okay, that first part’s not true; I’m sure there are some women who care about it, but we can just ignore the outliers.”

This time you leaned in, nuzzling his nose a little, and showing him you meant every word with your kiss.

And then it was your turn to ask, “And how long for you?”

Steve’s ears were still on fire and his cheeks began to burn pink as well. “ ‘This is your brain when you give Captain America an anger’, ” he quoted, and it took you a second to remember what he was talking about.

You groaned, burying your face between his shoulder and the couch cushion, enjoying a strong wiff of him while you were at it, “God! That was so embarrassing. Thought I was gonna get fired right then and there,” but you pulled back when realization hit you. “That long? That was the first time you and I ever actually spoke. Steve, why did you never tell me…wait, I already know the answer to that question; the events of the last month or so are explanation enough.”

Pressing his forehead to yours, he laughed, “It’s not just that. Okay, well, it’s mostly that, but also, I’m just so used to women only wanting me because of how I look or because I’m Captain America, so I guess I was also a bit guarded.”

You pulled back to look at him with slack eyes, completely unimpressed, “Hmm, that must be really difficult for you, being regarded as universally attractive and heroic. What a burden.”

He giggled and shoved at your shoulder lightly, “Well, it does make it hard to form genuine friendships and relationships, some of the time at least,” he added looking you in the eyes.

“Well, just to keep you humble, this?” You gestured to his body, “These muscles are disgusting, and your broad shoulders are hideous.”

He looked at you flatly.

“But I still love you,” you grinned up at him. “And there’s another for the tally, which I think puts me ahead of you, actually.” Grimacing slightly, you quickly added, “God, look what you’re turning me into, Steve. A woman who can’t quit professing her love. It’s fucking awful.”

“Then less talking,” he leaned in closer, lips hovering above your own, “And more kissing.”

He had a point there. 

Neither of you could be sure how long you both lay there, kissing and stroking each other, legs still tangled on the low armrest, whispering lovingly to each other in intervals. But when both of your phones began ringing in tandem, you both shot upright, barely missing a head-to-head collision. Heedless of your state of partial undress, you hurried over to where your purse had at some point been dropped on the floor.

It was Natasha.

“Hey Nat,” you answered, “Now’s not a good time. Can I call you back?”

You could hear her deep laugh through the receiver, “I was just calling to make sure you and Rogers hadn’t killed each other yet, but it sounds like you’re gonna live.”

You frowned in confusion, “What? What are you talking about, Nat?” 

You could hear another low chuckle, “Well, Steve came home last night looking like a scolded child and spent most of the morning sighing painfully before running to his quarters. Then after you came over this afternoon looking like an angry chihuahua, we all assumed you and he must have had a bad first date and were having it out.”

“Oh my god, there’s so much to unpack there,” you groaned out looking over at Steve, who seemed to be engrossed in a similar conversation of his own, exasperation evident in every line of his posture. “We had a misunderstanding…for like a month or year or two, but it’s all good now. So, no need to send in the Iron Legion or anything.”

Another laugh, “Well, then do you two need a few more boxes of condoms, or can you both stop fucking long enough to come eat dinner with the rest of us?”

You groaned again, “Ugh, Nat. We haven’t—Wait, what do you mean, dinner? It’s only like three…” You trailed off looking down at your watch, which read half past six. Your stomach gave a low grumble in response. Looking up at Steve, you and he exchanged a mutual look of bewilderment, “We’ll be out in a couple minutes.”

“Just don’t get all PDA on the rest of us, please. Some of us are still single.”

You couldn’t hold back your laugh at that, “Don’t worry about that. PDA is my kryptonite. See you in a few.”

You hung up your phone and made your way back to the couch, picking up your bra and shirt from where they lay on the ground, enjoying hearing the remainder of Steve’s side of the conversation as he began wrapping it up, seeing that you were getting dressed.

“Buck, I know what a condom is. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know…You’re hilarious, you know that?…I promise, it’s all good…I’m hanging up now.” And with that he lowered his phone and hung up.

“You know for someone with so much trauma to work through, he sure can be a sarcastic son of a—” 

“I know you’re not about to impugn my gender, Steve,” you cut him off, looking at him warningly.

“Son of a fuck,” he finished, a humorous glint in his eyes, as he took one last look at your form before you slipped your shirt on over your head.

“So, I guess everyone’s been taking bets on us, which it great, because I love it when my personal life is broadcasted to others,” your voice was laden with sarcasm as Steve laughed at you, pulling his own shirt back on.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, smiling as he walked up you, letting his hands come to rest on your waist. “We can fabricate a break up in record time or a pregnancy to throw them off their game…or, y’know, just bring our food back in here. Whatever suits your fancy.”

You laughed in shock, “Jeez, Steve. Remind me to never get under your skin.” But taking a moment to consider it, you added wryly, “I like the pregnancy scare one. We could fake that we’re getting a shotgun wedding in Vegas tomorrow.”

Steve’s eyes lit up with mischief, “And say that your parents are in a weird religious cult, so we’ll be moving to their commune after the honeymoon.” 

You pulled away, faking a look of pain that you hoped looked genuine, “That’s not funny, Steve. I lost my parents to a cult.”

Steve looked mortified as he began stumbling over his apologies, grasping desperately at your shoulders in regret, before you couldn’t hold back your laughter and Steve’s face flooded with relief and irritation.

“I’m just fucking with you. But we could totally pull it off with these acting chops, huh?” But seeing his flat expression, you added, “Or maybe we could just pretend like I’m an adult and you’re a centenarian and just go out there and eat dinner with our friends like the normal people do?”

Steve’s face softened back into a smile, “You’re a jerk. Had me fooled and feeling like an ass there for a second.”

“But?” You baited him, snaking your arms around his neck.

“But I love you anyway,” he murmured against your lips before pulling away and pulling you toward the door.

You weren’t looking forward to the ribbing you and he were surely in for, but if it meant that Steve was really and truly yours, then you could more than handle it. Bring it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really don’t don’t know how I will cope after next week when this is really over-over. 
> 
> But here’s a look ahead of what I’ve got cooking: I’ll be posting my Steve x Reader fic for [@e-g-b-o-k‘s](https://e-g-b-o-k.tumblr.com/post/162143817432/masterlist) 500 Follower Writing Challenge, so look for that (and all the other submissions to the contest too in a masterlist she'll be posting on April 10?? I think?). Also, go to her Tumblr and read her fics. She is AMAZING!
> 
> After that, I’ve got a Sam Wilson one-shot (lol, one shot...) based off a headcanon I recently wrote. 
> 
> And then a Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore AU that nobody ever asked for. It’ll be Bucky x Reader with background Steve x Peggy, and maybe some others. Still trapped in the brain at the mo.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You tie up some loose ends from the whole serum debacle and enjoy some well deserved down time with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe it’s actually OVER!! And I cannot believe that any of yall have stuck around this long. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. And see the end notes for info about a possible continuation of these two.

_One Month Later_

It was a typical Wednesday, and you were beyond bored. You were ready for the weekend that was still just too far off to be within reach. You were ready for Steve to get back from his mission already. You had said ‘fuck it’ and took your lunch at 11:00am more out of boredom than from actual hunger. You were regretting this impulse as you realized you’d be staring down more than five hours of work until you went home for the evening. You hadn’t really prepared for your afternoon meeting. Your sandwich bread had gotten soggy in the fridge. 

Yeah, it was definitely a Wednesday.

As you were discontentedly picking at the damp and soggy breadcrusts, you felt rather than heard someone come into the break room. Turning sharply, you were surprised to see Paul’s meek gaze.

“I come in peace, Y/N,” he said, his hands raised non-threateningly. “Mind if I sit?”

You shrugged and mumbled through a mouth of peanut butter and jelly, “You still work here. Sit where you want.”

Meeting your eyeline pointedly first, he then took the seat next to you, but with ample space in between. “There’s two things. First, I want to apologize,” you looked up in surprise, “I think—no, I know—I’ve been an ass and not a very good coworker. So I’m sorry for that and for not respecting your boundaries.”

You stared in open mouthed shock. Hell would have sooner frozen over than for Paul to self-reflect about his office behavior, or at least that’s what you had thought until now.

“I’ve been taking a seminar about interpersonal relationships in the workplace as part of my transfer to the D.C. office, and I realize that I’ve contributed to a hostile workspace for you by repeatedly stepping over personal boundaries. So, I’m trying to make amends. Will you accept my apology?”

You stared in wonder a moment longer. Sure, his apology sounded scripted and a little forced, but here Paul was not only admitting his faults, but also apologizing for them. 

“Of course, Paul. For what it’s worth, I’m actually gonna miss you and your pestering when you leave at the end of the week,” you smiled reassuringly. And you weren’t lying. Paul had always been a bit of a thorn in your side, but now that you were training his replacement, who had decidedly fewer personality quirks, you actually were going to miss swapping verbal abuses with him. 

“Second thing, so does that mean you’ll make it to my going away party on Friday?” He asked, a small twinkle in his eyes.

You looked at him with smug grin, “You know Steve’s probably gonna be coming with me, right? Assuming his mission doesn’t run long, that is.”

You saw Paul’s face flinch in response. Apparently, Steve had had a strongly worded conversation with Paul his first week back while you had been sick and the lesson seemed to have stuck. “Should I make amends with him too?”

“Nah, what has gone on between you and me is not his business,” you patted him on the shoulder before sipping at your coffee, “And I’ll tell him to be on his best behavior.”

He flashed you a grateful smile before standing and walking over to the coffee station to refill his mug. 

Taking this fleeting moment of honesty and humility, you decided it was time to make amends of your own.

“I think I also owe you an apology, Paul,” you said though somewhat gritted teeth.

He looked up from the coffee pot in surprise.

“The, uh, our date? That wasn’t fair of me,” you paused, not sure how to phrase the next part. “I had ulterior motives that I can’t get into, and it was pretty shitty for me to lead you on for even one night like that. So, I’m sorry, for all of it.”

Paul, who was looking uncharacteristically meek, muttered, “I kind of knew in the back of my head that you weren’t really there for the sake of my company. I won’t pretend to know what was up, but I’ll take your apology and put the whole thing in the past.” 

You and he shared a rueful smile before he waved himself out of the break room, saying that he need to get back to packing up his desk.

Yeah, now that Paul was actually being a normal, decent person, you were definitely going to miss having him creep around the office.

* * *

The rest of your day dragged on as monotonously as the morning had. You bullshitted your way through your meeting with the PR outreach team from the BBC New York affiliate. You finished going over some minor press releases from your interns. You sighed at the barely moving minute hand of your wall clock at least four times per hour. You amused yourself with a Buzzfeed quiz on the subway home, which said your Avengers soulmate was Tony, and you took a screen shot to show Steve when he got back from his mission tomorrow. 

And by the time you made it back to the sanctuary of your apartment, you were ready to sack out on your couch all evening and order takeout, cooking be damned and laziness be praised.

What you did not expect was for there to be a tuft of blond hair just visible from over the arm of your couch. Apparently, the mission had ended early.

Slipping your work heels off, you crept into your living room and took a long moment to behold the scene in front of you. 

Steve was asleep on your couch, his fingers loosely gripping a book which had landed open on his chest, and nestled behind the crook of one of his knees was a very content Douglass, who peeked up at you with half closed eyes. 

As gently as you could, you lifted the book out of Steve’s hand, dog earing the page before setting it down on the coffee table and reaching for the fuzzy throw blanket on the back of the couch to spread over him.

You quietly sat down on the floor near Steve’s head and pulled up your phone, typing in a delivery order from a nearby Italian restaurant, making sure to order plenty of extra food in case Steve hadn’t eaten since the mission debriefing as he was wont to do and adding special instructions for the delivery person to please, please, please knock quietly.

You sat reading the news on your phone, your head leaning back on the couch so that you could hear Steve’s quiet and even breaths, until you heard the gentle knock on your door that sounded more like jackhammer cutting through the silence of your apartment. You quickly got up and headed to the door to get your food and tip the delivery guy, aware that the knocking had likely awoken Steve as evidenced by the faint sounds of rustling fabric and the squeaking of the couch springs.

As you were setting out plates and utensils at the table, you were suddenly engulfed in warmth from behind as two strong arms wrapped around your middle and his lips nipped and nose nuzzled at your neck just under your ear.

“I take it your mission ended early?” You sighed, leaning back into Steve’s embrace.

Steve kissed down the back of your neck and whispered, “Got back this afternoon.” He tugged back the neckline of your dress as his lips skirted across the top of your shoulder. “I woulda stopped in to say hi, but you were in a meeting,” He kissed his way back to the side of your throat, “So I figured I’d come snuggle with Douglass instead.”

You couldn’t suppress a contented sigh as you let your hands settle on his arms, which were still holding you in place, and murmured, “I knew you were cheating on me.” 

Steve laughed softly, kissing you just below your jaw once more before pulling back enough to turn you around. Wasting no time, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a real kiss. 

Even after a month of kissing him, you still couldn’t quite believe it was all real. His lips on yours still felt new, still sent a delightful shiver down your spine, still sent your heart racing into your throat, still made your breath catch and your toes curl. 

But when your stomach gave another hungry clench, the wafting smell of garlic flatbread gained priority over Steve. With a final peck on his lips, you pulled away, and Steve gave you an expectant look as he sniffed at the aromas coming from the to-go boxes.

“What’s on the menu then?” 

You gave him an annoyed grin, “Oh, you think that just because you can waltz in here any time that I’ll just give you my food? That’s all for me.”

He smirked and began opening the boxes, ignoring your empty threat, “Looks like we’ve got caponata, some kind of gnocchi, marinated green beans, and what meal would be complete without garlic bread?” 

You rolled your eyes at him as you both began scooping piles of the food onto your plates, sneaking affectionate glances at each other. You were grateful for the privacy of your apartment tonight, far from the teasing eyes of the rest of the Avengers who would no doubt be giving you crap for mooning over each other so fervently.

As your appetite began to slow down, you set down your fork and couldn’t help laughing and pulling out your phone. “So, guess what Steve?”

There was a long pause before he rolled his eyes, sighed, and finally asked, “What?”

“Tony is my soulmate, so you and I are over. I’m gonna go be a homewrecker and seduce my boss,” you were doing your damnedest to hold a straight face, but you could feel the corners of your mouth tugging up.

Steve eyed you suspiciously, “Umm, do I want to know?”

Handing him your phone, you gave him your best shit-eating grin as he looked at you in quizzical amusement, “Buzzfeed says so. Who am I to deny the scientific metrics of this match?”

He held his unblinking stare before wordlessly reaching for his phone from his pocket. Oops. He wasn’t laughing like you’d expected. Maybe you’d taken the joke too far as you sometimes did. “Steve, it was just a joke, you know ‘hah hah.’”

He continued to look at you with a flat expression, “Well, I’ve got my soulmate match, and it’s not you either,” he handed his phone over, “It’s Captain America, Y/N. I’ll be leaving you for myself.”

You rolled your eyes and groaned teasingly, “You’re so funny, Steve.”

He gave you a self-satisfied grin as you both returned the other’s phone, “C’mon, that was perfect. You set it up and everything, and I played you.”

You laughed nudged him playfully, “Let me guess, Clint found the quiz and made all of you take it on the jet ride home.”

“That would be correct,” Steve was still looking down at his quiz result and giggling smugly. “At least I’ve learned to love myself.”

You groaned, “That’s not quite what I’d had in mind. Anyway, just for that, and for not waiting in my office until I was out of my meeting, you get to help me clean up.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get on it,” he groaned, but his smile betrayed his actual willingness to help.

When the dishes were cleaned and the leftovers were in the fridge, you and he ended up on the couch to watch a few episodes of _Brooklyn Nine Nine_ , one of the many shows on Steve’s media catch-up list. 

But soon enough the TV was forgotten as snuggling and kissing took precedence, the newness of your romance fueling an insatiable need for intimacy. In truth, little had changed between you two. You were still the same friends you’d been before. You still teased him about being old, and he still sassed you back in his own way. At the end of the day, you had your job and he had his unending duty. You still had your Douglass and Steve still had his Bucky, though of course, Bucky would have objected to being compared to a cat.

The difference was that now you two could finally breathe around each other. You could finally let your gaze shamelessly linger on him. Steve could finally run his fingers down the nape of your neck whenever he wanted. You could wrap yourself in his body and savor the smell of his cologne and his skin. And Steve could openly sketch you and share his drawings of you with you, but of course, that didn’t stop you from teasing him about being a stalker.

And then there was the kissing, the feeling of his bare skin on yours, of him buried deep in you, of him holding you tight in the mornings and hitting the snooze button for the third time. 

But tonight, it was all tender touches and soft sighs. His hand stroking down your cheek, your fingers holding his wrist. His lips kissing your eyelids, your brows, the bridge of your nose. Your teeth nipping at his neck, his earlobe, his chin. Tonight was about getting lost in each other and not needing to go further. 

He nudged your nose with his and sighed out, “Can we stay like this forever?”

You laughed softly at his cheesiness, “Dork, and yes. All we’d need to do is quit our jobs, transcend our bodily need for food and water, and teach Douglass to feed himself.”

He groaned into the kiss, gently pushing you into the back of the couch, “C’mon, humor me will ya?”

You laughed again before looking him in the eyes more sincerly, “You don’t need to go back to the tower tonight, do you?”

“I have my overnight bag in your bedroom already,” he said, smiling through half closed eyes.

“How very presumptuous of you,” you teased.

His fingers were fiddling with the hem of your short sleeve as he smiled back, “I like to think it was prescient rather presumptuous.”

“Smartass.”

“Better than dumbass,” he grinned at you like a smartass.

“You’re the worst,” you grumbled as he kissed along your jaw.

“Just keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

As much as you and he had wanted to never get up from the couch, it wasn’t long before you needed to get up and go to the bathroom. As you washed your hands, Steve shuffled in, and reached for his toothbrush that had at some point made itself at home in your bathroom permanently. 

It was moments like these, you and he brushing your teeth side by side and glancing at each other through the bathroom mirror, that you loved best. Seeing Steve barefoot in his boxers and a plain cotton t-shirt like this grounded you, helped you see that this relationship was real and not a dream or some fantasy of your own creation. The dull domesticity of these moments were something you had come to crave.

And when you slid into bed with him, you were always surprised at just how right it felt, how perfectly you fit into his embrace and how wonderfully and awkwardly his broad shoulders fit into yours.

Tonight, Steve wanted to be the little spoon, and you were more than glad to oblige. One of your arms was under his neck while the other was draped over his side, his fingers tangling with yours. As you pressed chaste kisses to the back of his neck, Steve hummed contentedly, and Douglass curled up between your ankles. 

“Y/N?” Steve whispered sleepily.

“Yeah, Steve?” You hummed between kisses.

“I love you,” Steve murmured. It didn’t matter how many times he said it, and he said it often, but it always made your heart jump slightly and filled your chest with a warmth that radiated throughout your body.

You responded by squeezing him a little tighter, kissing his neck more fervently. He knew you loved him; he didn’t need you to say it back, and his trust in your affections made you love him all the more. 

You and he both knew that forever wasn’t possible for anyone. Tomorrow, the sun would rise, and you would both have to leave the sanctuary of each other’s arms. Responsibilities would keep you both apart for the day and sometimes for longer. Missions would send him away, and work would sometimes keep you beyond five o’clock. But eventually you would both be able to put down the shield and the press releases long enough to find each other again, to return to this small sliver of forever.

Forever wasn’t possible, but these moments, even the smallest and most fleeting moments were enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS OVER....kind of. I don’t know that I’m ready to say goodbye to these two just yet. 
> 
> I got this idea from [jennaloohoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennaloohoo/pseuds/jennaloohoo), but what would yall think about deleted scenes/spin-off fics/headcanons? I don’t want to beat a dead horse, but I’d also like to write them a little longer. I won’t take requests yet, but I would like to hear if yall are interested, so come on over to my [Tumblr](https://eufeme.tumblr.com/), and send me an ask (you can send an anon ask if you're not on tumblr).
> 
> And I just want to thank all of yall once again. This damn fic is 73K words, and yall have stuck with me through angst and fluff all the way to the end. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!!


End file.
